•NRLF 


oems 


Thomas 

i  • 


I  Macaulayj 


LIBRARY 

OF   THK 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 


Class 


CuJL 


The  Poems  of 

Thomas  Babington  Macaulay 

Lays  of  Ancient  Rome 
Miscellaneous  Poems 


//  Illustrations 


G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  and  London 

Cbe  •Knickerbocker  press 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

LAYS  OF  ANCIENT  ROME 

PREFACE        3 

HORATIUS       ......  29 

PREFACE 31 

HORATIUS 35 

THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  LAKE  REGILLUS         .  59 

PREFACE 61 

THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  LAKE  REGILLUS    .  70 

VIRGINIA 99 

PREFACE IOI 

VIRGINIA IIO 

THE  PROPHECY  OF  CAPYS         .         .         .  127 

PREFACE 129 

THE  PROPHECY  OF  CAPYS   .     .     .135 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS          .         .         .147 

EPITAPH  ON  HENRY  MARTYN  (1812).        .  149 

iii 

235608 


iv  Contents 


PAGE 


LINES  TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  PITT  (1813)      .     150 
A  RADICAL  WAR-SONG  (1820)  .         .         .152 
IVRY  (1824)    ......     155 

THE  BATTLE  OF  MONCONTOUR  (1823)  .  160 
SONGS  OF  THE  CIVIL  WAR  .  .  .162 
SERMON  IN  A  CHURCH-  YARD  (1825)  .  169 
TRANSLATION  FROM  A.  V.  ARNAULT  (1826)  173 
DIES  IR^:  (1826)  .....  175 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  TIRZAH  AND  Am  RAD 

(1827)    .  .178 

THE    COUNTRY    CLERGYMAN  's    TRIP    TO 

CAMBRIDGE  (1827)    ....     196 

SONG  (1827)  ......     200 

THE  DELIVERANCE  OF  VIENNA         .         .     202 
THE  ARMADA  (1832)        .         .         .         .209 

INSCRIPTION  ON  THE  STATUE  OF  LORD  WIL- 

LIAM BENTINCK  AT  CALCUTTA  (1835)  .     214 

EPITAPH  ON  SIR  BENJAMIN  HEATH  MALKIN. 

AT  CALCUTTA  (1837)          .         .         .216 

THE  LAST  BUCCANEER  (1839)  .         .         .217 


Contents  v 

PAGE 

EPITAPH  ON  A  JACOBITE  (1845)         .         .     219 


*  EPITAPH  ON  LORD  METCALFE  (1847)         • 

.  TRANSLATION  FROM  PLAUTUS  (1850)          .  221 

.  VALENTINE    ......  223 

.  PARAPHRASE  ......  228 

LINES  WRITTEN  ON  THE  NIGHT  OF  THE  3OTH 

OF  JULY,  1847  .....  229 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

PACK 

LORD  MACAULAY,  AET.  49  Frontispiece 

From  a  drawing  by  George  Richmond,  A.R.A. 

"  SEIZED  HATCHET,  BAR,  AND  CROW  "     .  .  46 

"  THE  THREE  STOOD  CALM  AND  SILENT  "  48 

50 
54 

"  '  HEAR,  SENATORS  AND  PEOPLE  '  "     .         .  72 

"AND  HAND  TO  HAND  THEY  FIGHT  ON  FOOT  "  80 

"  '  ONE  OF  US  TWO,  HERMINIUS, 

SHALL  NEVER  MORE  GO  HOME  '  "  .         .  86 

"  '  TO-MORROW  YOUR  DICTATOR 

SHALL  BRING  IN  TRIUMPH  HOME  "         .  94 

"  '  COME,  MAKE  A  CIRCLE  ROUND  ME  "          .          IIO 

"  ON  THE  RIGHT  GOES  ROMULUS  "  136 


vii 


LAYS  OF  ANCIENT  ROME 


PREFACE 

THAT  what  is  called  the  history  of  the  kings  and 
early  consuls  of  Rome  is  to  a  great  extent  fabu- 
lous, few  scholars  have,  since  the  time  of  Beaufort, 
ventured  to  deny.  It  is  certain  that,  more  than  three 
hundred  and  sixty  years  after  the  date  ordinarily  as- 
signed for  the  foundation  of  the  city,  the  public  records 
were,  with  scarcely  an  exception,  destroyed  by  the 
Gauls.  It  is  certain  that  the  oldest  annals  of  the  com- 
monwealth were  compiled  more  than  a  century  and  a 
half  after  this  destruction  of  the  records.  It  is  certain, 
therefore,  that  the  great  Latin  writers  of  the  Augustan 
age  did  not  possess  those  materials  without  which  a 
trustworthy  account  of  the  infancy  of  the  Republic 
could  not  possibly  be  framed.  Those  writers  own,  in- 
deed, that  the  chronicles  to  which  they  had  access  were 
filled  with  battles  that  were  never  fought,  and  consuls 
that  were  never  inaugurated  ;  and  we  have  abundant 
proof  that,  in  these  chronicles,  events  of  the  greatest 
importance — such  as  the  issue  of  the  war  with  Porsena, 
and  the  issue  of  the  war  with  Brennus — were  grossly 
misrepresented.  Under  these  circumstances,  a  wise 
man  will  look  with  great  suspicion  on  the  legend  which 
has  come  down  to  us.  He  will,  perhaps,  be  inclined  to 
regard  the  princes  who  are  said  to  have  founded  the 

3 


4  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome 

civil  and  religious  institutions  of  Rome,  the  son  of 
Mars,  and  the  husband  of  Egeria,  as  mere  mythological 
personages,  of  the  same  class  with  Perseus  and  Ixion. 
As  he  draws  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  confines  of  au- 
thentic history,  he  will  become  less  and  less  hard  of  be- 
lief. He  will  admit  that  the  most  important  parts  of 
the  narrative  have  some  foundation  in  truth.  But  he 
will  distrust  almost  all  the  details,  not  only  because 
they  seldom  rest  on  any  solid  evidence,  but  also  because 
he  will  constantly  detect  in  them,  even  when  they  are 
within  the  limits  of  physical  possibility,  that  peculiar 
character,  more  easily  understood  than  defined,  which 
distinguishes  the  creations  of  the  imagination  from  the 
realities  of  the  world  in  which  we  live. 

The  early  history  of  Rome  is  indeed  far  more  poetical 
than  anything  else  in  Latin  literature.  The  loves  of 
the  Vestal  and  the  God  of  War  ;  the  cradle  laid  among 
the  reeds  of  Tiber  ;  the  fig-tree  ;  the  she- wolf ;  the 
shepherd's  cabin  ;  the  recognition  ;  the  fratricide  ;  the 
rape  of  the  Sabines  ;  the  death  of  Tarpeia  ;  the  fall  of 
Hostus  Hostilius ;  the  struggle  of  Mettus  Curtius 
through  the  marsh  ;  the  women  rushing  with  torn  rai- 
ment and  dishevelled  hair  between  their  fathers  and 
their  husbands  ;  the  nightly  meetings  of  Numa  and 
the  Nymph  by  the  well  in  the  sacred  grove  ;  the  fight 
of  the  three  Romans  and  the  three  Albans  ;  the  pur- 
chase of  the  Sibylline  books  ;  the  crime  of  Tullia  ;  the 
simulated  madness  of  Brutus  ;  the  ambiguous  reply  of 
the  Delphian  oracle  to  the  Tarquins  ;  the  wrongs 
of  Lucretia  ;  the  heroic  actions  of  Horatius  Cocles,  of 
Scsevola,  and  of  Clcelia  ;  the  battle  of  Regillus,  won 
by  the  aid  of  Castor  and  Pollux  ;  the  defence  of  Cre- 
mera  ;  the  touching  story  of  Coriolanus  ;  the  still  more 


Preface  5 

touching  story  of  Virginia  ;  the  wild  legend  about  the 
draining  of  the  Alban  lake  ;  the  combat  between  Va- 
lerius Corvus  and  the  gigantic  Gaul — are  among  the 
many  instances  which  will  at  once  suggest  themselves 
to  every  reader. 

In  the  narrative  of  I/ivy,  who  was  a  man  of  fine 
imagination,  these  stories  retain  much  of  their  genuine 
character.  Nor  could  even  the  tasteless  Dionysius  dis- 
tort and  mutilate  them  into  mere  prose.  The  poetry 
shines,  in  spite  of  him,  through  the  dreary  pedantry  of 
his  eleven  books.  It  is  discernible  in  the  most  tedious 
and  in  the  most  superficial  modern  works  on  the  early 
times  of  Rome.  It  enlivens  the  dulness  of  the  Uni- 
versal History,  and  gives  a  charm  to  the  most  meagre 
abridgments  of  Goldsmith. 

Even  in  the  age  of  Plutarch  there  were  discerning 
men  who  rejected  the  popular  account  of  the  foundation 
of  Rome,  because  that  account  appeared  to  them  to 
have  the  air,  not  of  a  history,  but  of  a  romance  or  a 
drama.  Plutarch,  who  was  displeased  at  their  in- 
credulity, had  nothing  better  to  say  in  reply  to  their 
arguments  than  that  chance  sometimes  turns  poet,  and 
produces  trains  of  events  not  to  be  distinguished  from 
the  most  elaborate  plots  which  are  constructed  by  art.1 

1  "TrtoTtrov  ftkv  kvioiS  ktirl  TO  SpafiariKov  nal  irA.a6{Kzrcio5eS' 
ov  dei  d£  a.7ti(5TEiv,  TTJY  rv^v  opcavraS,  OIGOV  itoirj^oiroov 
SrjuiovpyoS  i6n. — Pint.,  Rom.,  viii.  This  remarkable  passage 
has  been  more  grossly  misinterpreted  than  any  other  in  the 
Greek  language,  where  the  sense  was  so  obvious.  The  Latin 
version  of  Cruserius,  the  French  version  of  Amyot,  the  old 
English  version  by  several  hands,  and  the  later  English  version 
by  Langhorne  are  all  equally  destitute  of  every  trace  of  the 
meaning  of  the  original.  None  of  the  translators  saw  even 
that  Ttoirj^a  is  a  poem.  They  all  render  it  an  event. 


6  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome 

But  though  the  existence  of  a  poetical  element  in  the 
early  history  of  the  Great  City  was  detected  so  many 
ages  ago,  the  first  critic  who  distinctly  saw  from  what 
source  that  poetical  element  had  been  derived  was 
James  Perizonius,  one  of  the  most  acute  and  learned 
antiquaries  of  the  seventeenth  century.  His  theory, 
which,  in  his  own  days,  attracted  little  or  no  notice, 
was  revived  in  the  present  generation  by  Niebuhr,  a 
man  who  would  have  been  the  first  writer  of  his  time 
if  his  talent  for  communicating  truths  had  borne  any 
proportion  to  his  talent  for  investigating  them.  That 
theory  has  been  adopted  by  several  eminent  scholars 
of  our  own  country,  particularly  by  the  Bishop  of  St. 
David's,  by  Professor  Maiden,  and  by  the  lamented 
Arnold.  It  appears  to  be  now  generally  received  by 
men  conversant  with  classical  antiquity  ;  and,  indeed, 
it  rests  on  such  strong  proofs,  both  internal  and  ex- 
ternal, that  it  will  not  be  easily  subverted.  A  popular 
exposition  of  this  theory,  and  of  the  evidence  by  which 
it  is  supported,  may  not  be  without  interest  even  for 
readers  who  are  unacquainted  with  the  ancient  lan- 
guages. 

The  Latin  literature  which  has  come  down  to  us  is 
of  later  date  than  the  commencement  of  the  second 
Punic  war,  and  consists  almost  exclusively  of  works 
fashioned  on  Greek  models.  The  Latin  metres,  heroic, 
elegiac,  lyric,  and  dramatic,  are  of  Greek  origin.  The 
best  Latin  epic  poetry  is  the  feeble  echo  of  the  Iliad  and 
Odyssey.  The  best  Latin  eclogues  are  imitations  of 
Theocritus.  The  plan  of  the  most  finished  didactic 
poem  in  the  Latin  tongue  was  taken  from  Hesiod. 
The  Latin  tragedies  are  bad  copies  of  the  masterpieces 
of  Sophocles  and  Euripides.  The  Latin  comedies  are 


Preface  7 

free  translations  from  Demophilus,  Menander,  and 
Apollodorus.  The  Latin  philosophy  was  borrowed, 
without  alteration,  from  the  Portico  and  the  Academy  ; 
and  the  great  Latin  orators  constantly  proposed  to 
themselves  as  patterns  the  speeches  of  Demosthenes 
and  Lysias. 

But  there  was  an  earlier  Latin  literature — a  literature 
truly  Latin — which  has  wholly  perished,  which  had, 
indeed,  almost  wholly  perished  long  before  those  whom 
we  are  in  the  habit  of  regarding  as  the  greatest  Latin 
writers  were  born.  That  literature  abounded  with 
metrical  romances,  such  as  are  found  in  every  country 
where  there  is  much  curiosity  and  intelligence,  but 
little  reading  and  writing.  All  human  beings  not 
utterly  savage  long  for  some  information  about  past 
times,  and  are  delighted  by  narratives  which  present 
pictures  to  the  eye  of  the  mind.  But  it  is  only  in  very 
enlightened  communities  that  books  are  readily  access- 
ible. Metrical  composition,  therefore,  which,  in  a 
highly  civilized  nation,  is  a  mere  luxury,  is,  in  nations 
imperfectly  civilized,  almost  a  necessary  of  life,  and  is 
valued  less  on  account  of  the  pleasure  which  it  gives 
to  the  ear  than  on  account  of  the  help  which  it  gives  to 
the  memory.  A  man  who  can  invent  or  embellish  an 
interesting  story,  and  put  it  into  a  form  which  others 
may  easily  retain  in  their  recollection,  will  always  be 
highly  esteemed  by  a  people  eager  for  amusement  and 
information,  but  destitute  of  libraries.  Such  is  the 
origin  of  ballad-poetry,  a  species  of  composition  which 
scarcely  ever  fails  to  spring  up  and  flourish  in  every 
society  at  a  certain  point  in  the  progress  towards  re- 
finement. Tacitus  informs  us  that  songs  were  the  only 
memorials  of  the  past  which  the  ancient  Germans  pos- 


8  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome 

sessed.  We  learn  from  L,ucan  and  from  Ammianus 
Marcellinus  that  the  brave  actions  of  the  ancient  Gauls 
were  commemorated  in  the  verses  of  bards.  During 
many  ages,  and  through  many  revolutions,  minstrelsy 
retained  its  influence  over  both  the  Teutonic  and  the 
Celtic  race.  The  vengeance  exacted  by  the  spouse  of 
Attila  for  the  murder  of  Siegfried  was  celebrated  in 
rhymes,  of  which  Germany  is  still  justly  proud.  The 
exploits  of  Athelstane  were  commemorated  by  the 
Anglo-Saxons,  and  those  of  Canute  by  the  Danes,  in 
rude  poems,  of  which  a  few  fragments  have  come  down 
to  us.  The  chants  of  the  Welsh  harpers  preserved, 
through  ages  of  darkness,  a  faint  and  doubtful  memory 
of  Arthur.  In  the  Highlands  of  Scotland  may  still  be 
gleaned  some  relics  of  the  old  songs  about  Cuthullin 
and  Fingal.  The  long  struggle  of  the  Servians  against 
the  Ottoman  power  was  recorded  in  lays  full  of  martial 
spirit.  We  learn  from  Herrera  that,  when  a  Peruvian 
Inca  died,  men  of  skill  were  appointed  to  celebrate  him 
in  verses,  which  all  the  people  learned  by  heart,  and 
sang  in  public  on  days  of  festival.  The  feats  of  Kur- 
roglou,  the  great  freebooter  of  Turkistan,  recounted  in 
ballads  composed  by  himself,  are  known  in  every  vil- 
lage of  Northern  Persia.  Captain  Beechey  heard  the 
bards  of  the  Sandwich  Islands  recite  the  heroic  achieve- 
ments of  Tamehameha,  the  most  illustrious  of  their 
kings.  Mungo  Park  found  in  the  heart  of  Africa  a 
class  of  singing-men,  the  only  annalists  of  their  rude 
tribes,  and  heard  them  tell  the  story  of  the  victory 
which  Darnel,  the  negro  prince  of  the  Jaloffs,  won  over 
Abdulkader,  the  Mussulman  tyrant  of  Foota  Torra. 
This  species  of  poetry  attained  a  high  degree  of  excel- 
lence among  the  Castilians  before  they  began  to  copy 


Preface  9 

Tuscan  patterns.  It  attained  a  still  higher  degree  of 
excellence  among  the  English  and  the  Lowland  Scotch 
during  the  fourteenth,  fifteenth,  and  sixteenth  cen- 
turies. But  it  reached  its  full  perfection  in  ancient 
Greece  ;  for  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  great 
Homeric  poems  are  genetically  ballads,  though  widely 
distinguished  from  all  other  ballads,  and,  indeed,  from 
almost  all  other  human  compositions,  by  transcendent 
sublimity  and  beauty. 

As  it  is  agreeable  to  general  experience  that,  at  a 
certain  stage  in  the  progress  of  society,  ballad-poetry 
should  flourish,  so  is  it  also  agreeable  to  general  ex- 
perience that,  at  a  subsequent  stage  in  the  progress  of 
society,  ballad-poetry  should  be  undervalued  and  neg- 
lected. Knowledge  advances;  manners  change;  great 
foreign  models  of  composition  are  studied  and  imitated. 
The  phraseology  of  the  old  minstrels  becomes  obsolete. 
Their  versification,  which,  having  received  its  laws 
only  from  the  ear,  abounds  in  irregularities,  seems 
licentious  and  uncouth.  Their  simplicity  appears  beg- 
garly when  compared  with  the  quaint  forms  and  gaudy 
coloring  of  such  artists  as  Cowley  and  Gongora.  The 
ancient  lays,  unjustly  despised  by  the  learned  and  polite, 
linger  for  a  time  in  the  memory  of  the  vulgar,  and  are 
at  length  too  often  irretrievably  lost.  We  cannot  won- 
der that  the  ballads  of  Rome  should  have  altogether 
disappeared,  when  we  remember  how  very  narrowly, 
in  spite  of  the  invention  of  printing,  those  of  our  own 
country  and  those  of  Spain  escaped  the  same  fate. 
There  is,  indeed,  little  doubt  that  oblivion  covers  many 
English  songs  equal  to  any  that  were  published  by 
Bishop  Percy,  and  many  Spanish  songs  as  good  as  the 
best  of  those  which  have  been  so  happily  translated  by 


io  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome 

Mr.  Ixxrkhart.  Eighty  }^ears  ago,  England  possessed 
only  one  tattered  copy  of  Childe  Waters  and  Sir  Cau- 
line,  and  Spain  only  one  tattered  copy  of  the  noble 
poem  of  the  Cid.  The  snuff  of  a  candle,  or  a  mischiev- 
ous dog,  might,  in  a  moment,  have  deprived  the  world 
forever  of  any  of  those  fine  compositions.  Sir  Walter 
Scott,  who  united  to  the  fire  of  a  great  poet  the  minute 
curiosity  and  patient  diligence  of  a  great  antiquary, 
was  but  just  in  time  to  save  the  precious  relics  of  the 
Minstrelsy  of  the  Border.  In  Germany,  the  L,ay  of  the 
Nibelungs  had  been  long  utterly  forgotten,  when,  in 
the  eighteenth  century,  it  was,  for  the  first  time, 
printed  from  a  manuscript  in  the  old  library  of  a  noble 
family.  In  truth,  the  only  people  who,  through  their 
whole  passage  from  simplicity  to  the  highest  civiliza- 
tion, never  for  a  moment  ceased  to  love  and  admire 
their  old  ballads  were  the  Greeks. 

That  the  early  Romans  should  have  had  ballad- 
poetry,  and  that  this  poetry  should  have  perished,  is 
therefore  not  strange.  It  would,  on  the  contrary,  have 
been  strange  if  these  things  had  not  come  to  pass  ;  and 
we  should  be  justified  in  pronouncing  them  highly 
probable  even  if  we  had  no  direct  evidence  on  the  sub- 
ject. But  we  have  direct  evidence  of  unquestionable 
authority. 

Ennius,  who  flourished  in  the  time  of  the  second 
Punic  war,  was  regarded  in  the  Augustan  age  as  the 
father  of  L,atin  poetry.  He  was,  in  truth,  the  father 
of  the  second  school  of  L,atin  poetry,  the  only  school  of 
which  the  works  have  descended  to  us.  But  from 
Ennius  himself  we  learn  that  there  were  poets  who 
stood  to  him  in  the  same  relation  in  which  the  author 
of  the  romance  of  Count  Alarcos  stood  to  Garcilaso,  or 


Preface  1 1 

the  author  of  the  Lytell  Geste  of  Robyn  Hode  to  Lord 
Surrey.  Ennius  speaks  of  verses  which  the  Fauns  and 
the  bards  were  wont  to  chant  in  the  old  time,  when 
none  had  yet  studied  the  graces  of  speech,  when  none 
had  yet  climbed  the  peaks  sacred  to  the  goddesses  of 
Grecian  song.  "  Where,"  Cicero  mournfully  asks, 
"  are  those  old  verses  now  ?  "  * 

Contemporary  with  Ennius  was  Quintus  Fabius 
Pictor,  the  earliest  of  the  Roman  annalists.  His  ac- 
count of  the  infancy  and  youth  of  Romulus  and  Remus 
has  been  preserved  by  Dionysius,  and  contains  a  very 
remarkable  reference  to  the  ancient  Latin  poetry. 
Fabius  says  that,  in  his  time,  his  countrymen  were 
still  in  the  habit  of  singing  ballads  about  the  Twins. 
"  Even  in  the  hut  of  Faustulus  " — so  these  old  lays 
appear  to  have  run — "  the  children  of  Rhea  and  Mars 

1  "  Quid  ?    Nostri  versus  ubi  sunt  ? 

.    .    .    'Quosolim  Fauni  vatesque  canebant, 

Cum  neque  Musarum  scopulos  quisquatn  superftrat, 

Nee  dicti  studiosus  erat.'  "—Brutus,  xxii. 

The  Muses,  it  should  be  observed,  are  Greek  divinities.  The 
Italian  goddesses  of  verse  were  the  Camcenae.  At  a  later  period, 
the  appellations  were  used  indiscriminately  ;  but  in  the  age  of 
Ennius  there  was  probably  a  distinction.  In  the  epitaph  of 
Naevius,  who  was  the  representative  of  the  old  Italian  school 
of  poetry,  the  Camcense,  not  the  Muses,  are  represented  as  griev- 
ing for  the  loss  of  their  votary.  The  "  Musarum  scopuli  "  are 
evidently  the  peaks  of  Parnassus. 

Scaliger,  in  a  note  on  Varro  (De  Lingua  Latina,  lib.  vi.), 
suggests,  with  great  ingenuity,  that  the  Fauns,  who  were  repre- 
sented by  the  superstition  of  later  ages  as  a  race  of  monsters, 
half  gods  and  half  brutes,  may  really  have  been  a  class  of  men 
who  exercised  in  Latium,  at  a  very  remote  period,  the  same 
functions  which  belonged  to  the  Magians  in  Persia  and  to  the 
bards  in  Gaul. 


12  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome 

were,  in  port  and  in  spirit,  not  like  unto  swineherds  or 
cowherds,  but  such  that  men  might  well  guess  them  to 
be  of  the  blood  of  kings  and  gods. ' '  * 

1  Oi  d£  dvdpcaQsvrs's  yivovrai,  ytard  TS  d$ioodiv  jtopcpTf?  Hal 
tppoviji*aTo$  oyuov  ov  6vo(popftoi^  xal  fiov 
aAA.'  oz'ouS  av  rzS  d&aotiEie  TovS  £H  fiadtfaiov  re 
yevovS,  Hal  dito  Satjuoroov  GnopaS  yeve'Gftai 
ok  kv  roz?  TtarpiotS  vfivoiS  vito  'Paoj^aiaor  en  nal  vvv  aderai. 
— DION.  HAI,.,  i.,  79.  This  passage  has  sometimes  been  cited 
as  if  Dionysius  had  been  speaking  in  his  own  person,  and  had, 
Greek  as  he  was,  been  so  industrious  or  so  fortunate  as  to  dis- 
cover some  valuable  remains  of  that  early  Latin  poetry  which 
the  greatest  Latin  writers  of  his  age  regretted  as  hopelessly 
lost.  Such  a  supposition  is  highly  improbable  ;  and,  indeed,  it 
seems  clear  from  the  context  that  Dionysius,  as  Reiske  and 
other  editors  evidently  thought,  was  merely  quoting  from 
Fabius  Pictor.  The  whole  passage  has  the  air  of  an  extract 
from  an  ancient  chronicle,  and  is  introduced  by  the  words 
KoivToS  nkv  $d/3to<S,  6  IIiHTGop  XsyonEvoS,  rpds  ypdgjst. 

Another  argument  may  be  urged  which  seems  to  deserve 
consideration.  The  author  of  the  passage  in  question  mentions 
a  thatched  hut  which,  in  his  time,  stood  between  the  summit 
of  Mount  Palatine  and  the  Circus.  This  hut,  he  says,  was  built 
by  Romulus,  and  was  constantly  kept  in  repair  at  the  public 
charge,  but  never  in  any  respect  embellished.  Now,  in  the 
age  of  Dionysius  there  certainly  was  at  Rome  a  thatched  hut, 
said  to  have  been  that  of  Romulus.  But  this  hut,  as  we  learn 
from  Vitruvius,  stood,  not  near  the  Circus,  but  in  the  Capitol 
(Vit.,  ii.,  i).  If,  therefore,  we  understand  Dionysius  to  speak 
in  his  own  person,  we  can  reconcile  his  statement  with  that  of 
Vitruvius  only  by  supposing  that  there  were  at  Rome,  in  the 
Augustan  age,  two  thatched  huts,  both  believed  to  have  been 
built  by  Romulus,  and  both  carefully  repaired  and  held  in  high 
honor.  The  objections  to  such  a  supposition  seem  to  be  strong. 
Neither  Dionysius  nor  Vitruvius  speaks  of  more  than  one  such 
hut.  Dio  Cassius  informs  us  that  twice,  during  the  long  ad- 
ministration of  Augustus,  the  hut  of  Romulus  caught  fire  (xlviii., 


Preface  13 

Cato  the  Censor,  who  also  lived  in  the  days  of  the 
second  Punic  war,  mentioned  this  lost  literature  in  his 
lost  work  on  the  antiquities  of  his  country.  Many  ages, 
he  said,  before  his  time,  there  were  ballads  in  praise  of 
illustrious  men  ;  and  these  ballads  it  was  the  fashion 

43,  liv.,  29).  Had  there  been  two  such  huts,  would  he  not  have 
told  us  of  which  he  spoke  ?  An  English  historian  would  hardly 
give  an  account  of  a  fire  at  Queen's  College  without  saying 
whether  it  was  at  Queen's  College,  Oxford,  or  at  Queen's  Col- 
lege, Cambridge.  Marcus  Seneca,  Macrobius,  and  Conon,  a 
Greek  writer  from  whom  Photius  has  made  large  extracts, 
mention  only  one  hut  of  Romulus,  that  in  the  Capitol  (M. 
Seneca,  Contr.,  i.,  6 ;  Macrobius,  Sat.,  i.,  15  ;  Photius,  Bibl., 
186).  Ovid,  Livy,  Petronius,  Valerius  Maximus,  Lucius  Seneca, 
and  St.  Jerome  mention  only  one  hut  of  Romulus,  without 
specifying  the  site  (Ovid,  Fasti,  iii,  183  ;  Liv.,  v.,  53  ;  Petronius, 
Fragm. ;  Val.  Max.,  iv.,  4 ;  L.  Seneca,  Consolatio  adHelviam; 
D.  Hieron.,  Ad  Paulinianum  de  Didymd). 

The  whole  difficulty  is  removed  if  we  suppose  that  Dionysius 
was  merely  quoting  Fabius  Pictor.  Nothing  is  more  probable 
than  that  the  cabin,  which,  in  the  time  of  Fabius,  stood  near 
the  Circus,  might,  long  before  the  age  of  Augustus,  have  been 
transported  to  the  Capitol,  as  the  place  fittest,  by  reason  both 
of  its  safety  and  of  its  sanctity,  to  contain  so  precious  a  relic. 

The  language  of  Plutarch  confirms  this  hypothesis.  He  de- 
scribes with  great  precision  the  spot  where  Romulus  dwelt,  on 
the  slope  of  Mount  Palatine,  leading  to  the  Circus ;  but  he  says 
not  a  word  implying  that  the  dwelling  was  still  to  be  seen  there. 
Indeed,  his  expressions  imply  that  it  was  no  longer  there.  The 
evidence  of  Solinus  is  still  more  to  the  point.  He,  like  Plu- 
tarch, describes  the  spot  where  Romulus  had  resided,  and  says 
expressly  that  the  hut  had  been  there,  but  that  in  his  time  it 
was  there  no  longer.  The  site,  it  is  certain,  was  well  remem- 
bered ;  and  probably  retained  its  old  name,  as  Charing  Cross 
and  the  Haymarket  have  done.  This  is  probably  the  explana- 
tion of  the  words  "casa  Romuli  "  in  Victor's  description  of  the 
Tenth  Region  of  Rome  under  Valentinian. 


14  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome 

for  the  guests  at  banquets  to  sing  in  turn  while  the 
piper  played.  "  Would,"  exclaimed  Cicero,  "  that  we 
still  had  the  old  ballads  of  which  Cato  speaks  ! ' ' 

Valerius  Maximus  gives  us  exactly  similar  informa- 
tion, without  mentioning  his  authority,  and  observes 
that  the  ancient  Roman  ballads  were  probably  of  more 
benefit  to  the  young  than  all  the  lectures  of  the  Athe- 
nian schools,  and  that  to  the  influence  of  the  national 
poetry  were  to  be  ascribed  the  virtues  of  such  men  as 
Camillus  and  Fabricius.* 

Varro,  whose  authority  on  all  questions  connected 
with  the  antiquities  of  his  country  is  entitled  to  the 
greatest  respect,  tells  us  that  at  banquets  it  was  once 
the  fashion  for  boys  to  sing,  sometimes  with  and  some- 
times without  instrumental  music,  ancient  ballads  in 
praise  of  men  of  former  times.  These  young  per- 
formers, he  observes,  were  of  unblemished  character,  a 
circumstance  which  he  probably  mentioned  because, 
among  the  Greeks,  and  indeed  in  his  time  among  the 

1  Cicero  refers  twice  to  this  important  passage  in  Cato's  An- 
tiquities :  "  Gravissimus  auctor  in  Originibus  dixit  Cato,  morem 
apud  majores  hunc  epularum  ftrisse,  ut  deinceps,  qui  accubarent, 
canerent  ad  tibiam  clarorum  virorum  laudes  atque  virtutes.  Ex 
quo  perspicuum  est,  et  cantus  turn  fuisse  rescriptos  vocum  sonis, 
et  carmina." —  Tusc.  Qucest.,  iv.,  2.  Again  :  "  Utinam  exstarent 
ilia  carmina,  quae,  multis  saeculis  ante  suam  setatem,  in  epulis 
esse  cantitata  a  singulis  convivis  de  clarorum  vivorum  laudibus, 
in  Origiuibus  scriptum  reliquit  Cato." — Brutus,  xix. 

8  "Majores  natu  in  conviviis  ad  tibias  egregia  superiorum 
opera  carmine  comprehensa  pangebant,  quo  ad  ea  imitanda 
juventutem  alacriorem  redderent.  .  .  .  Quas  Athenas,  quam 
scholam,  quse  alienigena  studia  huic  domesticae  disciplinae 
praetulerim  ?  Inde  oriebantur  Camilli,  Scipiones,  Fabricii,  Mar- 
celli,  Fabii."— VAI,.  MAX.,  ii.,  i. 


Preface  15 

Romans  also,  the  morals  of  singing-boys  were  in  no 
high  repute.1 

The  testimony  of  Horace,  though  given  incidentally, 
confirms  the  statements  of  Cato,  Valerius  Maximus, 
and  Varro.  The  poet  predicts  that,  under  the  peaceful 
administration  of  Augustus,  the  Romans  will,  over  their 
full  goblets,  sing  to  the  pipe,  after  the  fashion  of  their 
fathers,  the  deeds  of  brave  captains,  and  the  ancient 
legends  touching  the  origin  of  the  city.8 

The  proposition,  then,  that  Rome  had  ballad-poetry 
is  not  merely  in  itself  highly  probable,  but  is  fully 
proved  by  direct  evidence  of  the  greatest  weight. 

This  proposition  being  established,  it  becomes  easy 
to  understand  why  the  early  history  of  the  city  is  un- 
like almost  everything  else  in  Latin  literature,  native 
where  almost  everything  else  is  borrowed,  imaginative 
where  almost  everything  else  is  prosaic.  We  can 
scarcely  hesitate  to  pronounce  that  the  magnificent, 
pathetic,  and  truly  national  legends  which  present  so 
striking  a  contrast  to  all  that  surrounds  them  are 
broken  and  defaced  fragments  of  that  early  poetry 
which,  even  in  the  age  of  Cato  the  Censor,  had  become 
antiquated,  and  of  which  Tully  had  never  heard  a  line. 

1  "  In  conviviis  pueri  modesti  ut  cantarent  carmina  antiqua, 
in  quibus  laudes  erant  majorum,  et  assa  voce,  et  cum  tibicine. 
Nonius,  Assa  voce  pro  sola." 

*         "  Nosque  et  profestis  lucibus  et  sacris, 
Inter  jocosi  munera  Liberi, 

Cum  prole  matronisque  nostris, 

Rite  deos  prius  apprecati, 
Virtute  functos,  more  patrum,  duces, 

remixto  carmine  tibiis, 
Trojamque  et  Anchisen  et  almae 

Progeniem  Veneris  canemus." — Carm.,  iv.,  15. 


16  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome 

That  this  poetry  should  have  been  suffered  to  perish 
will  not  appear  strange  when  we  consider  how  complete 
was  the  triumph  of  the  Greek  genius  over  the  public 
mind  of  Italy.  It  is  probable  that,  at  an  early  period, 
Homer  and  Herodotus  furnished  some  hints  to  the 
Latin  minstrels  ; 1  but  it  was  not  till  after  the  war  with 
Pyrrhus  that  the  poetry  of  Rome  began  to  put  off  its 
old  Ausonian  character.  The  transformation  was  soon 
consummated.  The  conquered,  says  Horace,  led  cap- 
tive the  conquerors.  It  was  precisely  at  the  time  at 
which  the  Roman  people  rose  to  unrivalled  political 
ascendency  that  they  stooped  to  pass  under  the  intel- 
lectual yoke.  It  was  precisely  at  the  time  at  which  the 
sceptre  departed  from  Greece  that  the  empire  of  her 
language  and  of  her  arts  became  universal  and  despotic. 
The  revolution,  indeed,  was  not  effected  without  a 
struggle.  Naevius  seems  to  have  been  the  last  of  the 
ancient  line  of  poets.  Bnnius  was  the  founder  of  a 
new  dynasty.  Naevius  celebrated  the  first  Punic  war 
in  Saturnian  verse,  the  old  national  verse  of  Italy.2 

1  See  the  Preface  to  the  Lay  of  the  Battle  of  Regillus. 

2  Cicero  speaks  highly,  in  more  than  one  place,  of  this  poem 
of  Naevius  ;  Ennius  sneered  at  it,  and  stole  from  it. 

As  to  the  Saturnian  measure,  see  Hermann's  Elementa  Doc- 
trine Metriaz,  iii.,  9. 

The  Saturnian  line,  according  to  the  grammarians,  consisted 
of  two  parts.  The  first  was  a  catalectic  dimeter  iambic ;  the 
second  was  composed  of  three  trochees.  But  the  license  taken 
by  the  early  Latin  poets  seems  to  have  been  almost  boundless. 
The  most  perfect  Saturnian  line  which  has  been  preserved  was 
the  work,  not  of  a  professional  artist,  but  of  an  amateur  : 
"  Dabunt  malum  Metelli  Naevio  poetae." 

There  has  been  much  difference  of  opinion  among  learned 
men  respecting  the  history  of  this  measure.  That  it  is  the 


Preface  17 

Ennius  sang  the  second  Punic  war  in  numbers  bor- 
rowed from  the  Iliad.  The  elder  poet,  in  the  epitaph 
which  he  wrote  for  himself,  and  which  is  a  fine  speci- 
same  with  a  Greek  measure  used  by  Archilochus  is  indisputable 
(Bentley,  Phalaris,  xi.).  But  in  spite  of  the  authority  of 
Terentianus  Maurus,  and  of  the  still  higher  authority  of  Bent- 
ley,  we  may  venture  to  doubt  whether  the  coincidence  was  not 
fortuitous.  We  constantly  find  the  same  rude  and  simple  num- 
bers in  different  countries,  under  circumstances  which  make  it 
impossible  to  suspect  that  there  has  been  imitation  on  either  side. 
Bishop  Heber  heard  the  children  of  a  village  in  Bengal  singing 
"Radha,  Radha,"  to  the  tune  of  "My  boy  Billy."  Neither 
the  Castilian  nor  the  German  minstrels  of  the  Middle  Ages 
owed  anything  to  Paros  or  to  ancient  Rome.  Yet  both  the 
poem  of  the  Cid  and  the  poem  of  the  Nibelungs  contain  many 
Saturnian  verses  ;  as, 

"  Kstas  nuevas  a  mio  Cid  eran  venidas." 
"  A  mi  lo  dicen  ;  a  ti  dan  las  orejadas." 
"  Man  mohte  michel  wunder  von  Sifride  sagen." 
"  Wa  ich  den  Klinic  vinde  daz  sol  man  mir  sagen." 

Indeed,  there  cannot  be  a  more  perfect  Saturnian  line  than  one 
which  is  sung  in  every  English  nursery  : 

"  The  queen  was  in  her  parlor  eating  bread  and  honey  ;  " 
yet  the  author  of  this  line,  we  may  be  assured,   borrowed 
nothing  from  either  Naevius  or  Archilochus. 

On  the  other  hand,  it  is  by  no  means  improbable  that,  two 
or  three  hundred  years  before  the  time  of  Ennius,  some  Latin 
minstrel  may  have  visited  Sybaris  or  Crotona,  may  have  heard 
some  verses  of  Archilochus  sung,  may  have  been  pleased  with 
the  metre,  and  may  have  introduced  it  at  Rome.  Thus  much 
is  certain,  that  the  Saturnian  measure,  if  not  a  native  of  Italy, 
was  at  least  so  early  and  so  completely  naturalized  there  that 
its  foreign  origin  was  forgotten. 

Bentley  says,  indeed,  that  the  Saturnian  measure  was  first 
brought  from  Greece  into  Italy  by  Naevius.  But  this  is  merely 
obiter  dictum,  to  use  a  phrase  common  in  our  courts  of  law,  and 
would  not  have  been  deliberately  maintained  by  that  incom- 
parable critic,  whose  memory  is  held  in  reverence  by  all  lovers 


i8  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome 

men  of  the  early  Roman  diction  and  versification, 
plaintively  boasted  that  the  Latin  language  had  died 

of  learning.  The  arguments  which  might  be  brought  against 
Bentley's  assertion — for  it  is  mere  assertion,  supported  by  no 
evidence — are  innumerable.  A  few  will  suffice. 

1.  Bentley's  assertion  is  opposed  to  the  testimony  of  Ennius. 
Ennius  sneered  at  Naevius  for  writing  on  the  first  Punic  war  in 
verses  such  as  the  old  Italian  bards  used  before  Greek  literature 
had  been  studied.     Now  the  poem  of  Naevius  was  in  Saturnian 
verse.     Is  it  possible  that  Ennius  could  have  used  such  expres- 
sions if  the  Saturnian  verse  had  been  just  imported  from  Greece 
for  the  first  time  ? 

2.  Bentley's  assertion  is  opposed  to  the  testimony  of  Horace. 
"When  Greece,"  says  Horace,   "introduced  her  arts  into  our 
uncivilized  country,   those  rugged  Saturnian  numbers  passed 
away."    Would  Horace  have  said  this  if  the  Saturnian  numbers 
had  been  imported  from  Greece  just  before  the  hexameter? 

3.  Bentley's  assertion  is  opposed  to  the  testimony  of  Festus 
and  of  Aurelius  Victor,  both  of  whom  positively  say  that  the 
most  ancient  prophecies  attributed  to  the  Fauns  were  in  Saturn- 
ian verse. 

4.  Bentley's  assertion  is  opposed  to  the  testimony  of  Teren- 
tianus  Maurus,  to  whom  he  has  himself  appealed.    Terentianus 
Maurus  does  indeed  say  that  the  Saturnian  measure,  though 
believed  by  the  Romans  from  a  very  early  period  ("credidit 
vetustas  ")  to  be  of  Italian  invention,  was  really  borrowed  from 
the  Greeks.     But  Terentianus  Maurus  does  not  say  that  it  was 
first  borrowed  by  Naevius.     Nay,  the  expressions  used  by  Te- 
rentianus Maurus  clearly  imply  the  contrary ;  for  how  could 
the  Romans  have  believed,  from  a  very  early  period,  that  this 
measure  was  the  indigenous  production  of  Latium  if  it  was 
really  brought  over  from  Greece  in  an  age  of  intelligence  and 
liberal  curiosity,  in  the  age  which  gave  birth  to  Ennius,  Plau- 
tus,  Cato  the  Censor,  and  other  distinguished  writers  ?   If  Bent- 
ley's  assertion  were  correct,  there  could  have  been  no  more 
doubt  at  Rome  about  the  Greek  origin  of  the  Saturnian  meas- 
ure than  about  the  Greek  origin  of  hexameters  or  Sapphics. 


Preface  19 

with  him.1  Thus  what  to  Horace  appeared  to  be  the 
first  faint  dawn  of  Roman  literature  appeared  to  Naevius 
to  be  its  hopeless  setting.  In  truth,  one  literature  was 
setting  and  another  dawning. 

The  victory  of  the  foreign  taste  was  decisive  ;  and, 
indeed,  we  can  hardly  blame  the  Romans  for  turning 
away  with  contempt  from  the  rude  lays  which  had  de- 
lighted their  fathers,  and  giving  their  whole  admiration 
to  the  immortal  productions  of  Greece.  The  national 
romances,  neglected  by  the  great  and  the  refined  whose 
education  had  been  finished  at  Rhodes  or  Athens,  con- 
tinued, it  may  be  supposed,  during  some  generations  to 
delight  the  vulgar.  While  Virgil,  in  hexameters  of 
exquisite  modulation,  described  the  sports  of  rustics, 
those  rustics  were  still  singing  their  wild  Saturnian 
ballads.1  It  is  not  improbable  that,  at  the  time  when 
Cicero  lamented  the  irreparable  loss  of  the  poems  men- 
tioned by  Cato,  a  search  among  the  nooks  of  the  Apen- 
nines as  active  as  the  search  which  Sir  Walter  Scott 
made  among  the  descendants  of  the  moss-troopers  of 
L,iddesdale  might  have  brought  to  light  many  fine  re- 
mains of  ancient  minstrelsy.  No  such  search  was 
made.  The  L,atin  ballads  perished  forever.  Yet  dis- 
cerning critics  have  thought  that  they  could  still  per- 
ceive in  the  early  history  of  Rome  numerous  fragments 
of  this  lost  poetry,  as  the  traveller  on  classic  ground 
sometimes  finds,  built  into  the  heavy  wall  of  a  fort  or 
convent,  a  pillar  rich  with  acanthus  leaves,  or  a  frieze 
where  the  Amazons  and  Bacchanals  seem  to  live.  The 
theatres  and  temples  of  the  Greek  and  the  Roman  were 
degraded  into  the  quarries  of  the  Turk  and  the  Goth. 

1  Aulus  Gellius,  Nodes  Atticez,  i.,  24. 
'SeeServius,  in  Georg.,  ii.,  385. 


20  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome 

Even  so  did  the  ancient  Saturnian  poetry  become  the 
quarry  in  which  a  crowd  of  orators  and  annalists  found 
the  materials  for  their  prose. 

It  is  not  difficult  to  trace  the  process  by  which  the 
old  songs  were  transmuted  into  the  form  which  they 
now  wear.  Funeral  panegyric  and  chronicle  appear  to 
have  been  the  intermediate  links  which  connected  the 
lost  ballads  with  the  histories  now  extant.  From  a 
very  early  period  it  was  the  usage  that  an  oration 
should  be  pronounced  over  the  remains  of  a  noble 
Roman.  The  orator,  as  we  learn  from  Polybius,  was 
expected,  on  such  an  occasion,  to  recapitulate  all  the 
services  which  the  ancestors  of  the  deceased  had,  from 
the  earliest  time,  rendered  to  the  commonwealth. 
There  can  be  little  doubt  that  the  speaker  on  whom 
this  duty  was  imposed  would  make  use  of  all  the  stories 
suited  to  his  purpose  which  were  to  be  found  in  the 
popular  lays.  There  can  be  as  little  doubt  that  the  fam- 
ily of  an  eminent  man  would  preserve  a  copy  of  the 
speech  which  had  been  pronounced  over  his  corpse. 
The  compilers  of  the  early  chronicles  would  have  re- 
course to  these  speeches  ;  and  the  great  historians  of  a 
later  period  would  have  recourse  to  the  chronicles. 

It  may  be  worth  while  to  select  a  particular  story, 
and  to  trace  its  probable  progress  through  these  stages. 
The  description  of  the  migration  of  the  Fabian  house 
to  Cremera  is  one  of  the  finest  of  the  many  fine  pas- 
sages which  lie  thick  in  the  earlier  books  of  Livy. 
The  Consul,  clad  in  his  military  garb,  stands  in  the 
vestibule  of  his  house,  marshalling  his  clan,  three  hun- 
dred and  six  fighting-men,  all  of  the  same  proud 
patrician  blood,  all  worthy  to  be  attended  by  the  fasces, 
and  to  command  the  legions.  A  sad  and  anxious 


Preface  21 

retinue  of  friends  accompanies  the  adventurers  through 
the  streets  ;  but  the  voice  of  lamentation  is  drowned  by 
the  shouts  of  admiring  thousands.  As  the  procession 
passes  the  Capitol,  prayers  and  vows  are  poured  forth, 
but  in  vain.  The  devoted  band,  leaving  Janus  on  the 
right,  marches  to  its  doom,  through  the  Gate  of  Evil 
Luck.  After  achieving  high  deeds  of  valor  against 
overwhelming  numbers,  all  perish  save  one  child,  the 
stock  from  which  the  great  Fabian  race  was  destined 
again  to  spring,  for  the  safety  and  glory  of  the  common- 
wealth. That  this  fine  romance,  the  details  of  which 
are  so  full  of  poetical  truth,  and  so  utterly  destitute  of 
all  show  of  historical  truth,  came  originally  from  some 
lay  which  had  often  been  sung  with  great  applause  at 
banquets  is  in  the  highest  degree  probable.  Nor  is  it 
difficult  to  imagine  a  mode  in  which  the  transmission 
might  have  taken  place.  The  celebrated  Quintus 
Fabius  Maximus,  who  died  about  twenty  years  before 
the  first  Punic  war,  and  more  than  forty  years  before 
Knnius  was  born,  is  said  to  have  been  interred  with 
extraordinary  pomp.  In  the  eulogy  pronounced  over 
his  body,  all  the  great  exploits  of  his  ancestors  were 
doubtless  recounted  and  exaggerated.  If  there  were 
then  extant  songs  which  gave  a  vivid  and  touching 
description  of  an  event,  the  saddest  and  the  most  glori- 
ous in  the  long  history  of  the  Fabian  house,  nothing 
could  be  more  natural  than  that  the  panegyrist  should 
borrow  from  such  songs  their  finest  touches,  in  order  to 
adorn  his  speech.  A  few  generations  later  the  songs 
would  perhaps  be  forgotten,  or  remembered  only  by 
shepherds  and  vine-dressers.  But  the  speech  would 
certainly  be  preserved  in  the  archives  of  the  Fabian 
nobles.  Fabius  Pictor  would  be  well  acquainted  with 


22  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome 

a  document  so  interesting  to  his  personal  feelings,  and 
would  insert  large  extracts  from  it  in  his  rude  chronicle. 
That  chronicle,  as  we  know,  was  the  oldest  to  which 
lyivy  had  access.  Livy  would,  at  a  glance,  distinguish 
the  bold  strokes  of  the  forgotten  poet  from  the  dull  and 
feeble  narrative  by  which  they  were  surrounded,  would 
retouch  them  with  a  delicate  and  powerful  pencil,  and 
would  make  them  immortal. 

That  this  might  happen  at  Rome  can  scarcely  be 
doubted  ;  for  something  very  like  this  has  happened  in 
several  countries,  and,  among  others,  in  our  own. 
Perhaps  the  theory  of  Perizonius  cannot  be  better  illus- 
trated than  by  showing  that  what  he  supposes  to  have 
taken  place  in  ancient  times  has,  beyond  all  doubt, 
taken  place  in  modern  times. 

"  History,"  says  Hume,  with  the  utmost  gravity, 
"  has  preserved  some  instances  of  Edgar's  amours,  from 
which,  as  from  a  specimen,  we  may  form  a  conjecture  of 
the  rest."  He  then  tells  very  agreeably  the  stories  of 
Blfleda  and  Elfrida,  two  stories  which  have  a  most 
suspicious  air  of  romance,  and  which,  indeed,  greatly 
resemble,  in  their  general  character,  some  of  the  legends 
of  early  Rome.  He  cites,  as  his  authority  for  these  two 
tales,  the  chronicle  of  William  of  Malmesbury,  who  lived 
in  the  time  of  King  Stephen.  The  great  majority  of 
readers  suppose  that  the  device  by  which  Elfleda  was 
substituted  for  her  young  mistress,  the  artifice  by 
which  Athelwold  obtained  the  hand  of  Elfrida,  the  de- 
tection of  that  artifice,  the  hunting  party,  and  the  ven- 
geance of  the  amorous  King  are  things  about  which 
there  is  no  more  doubt  than  about  the  execution  of 
Anne  Boleyn,  or  the  slitting  of  Sir  John  Coventry's 
nose.  But  when  we  turn  to  William  of  Malmesbury, 


Preface  23 

we  find  that  Hume,  in  his  eagerness  to  relate  these 
pleasant  fables,  has  overlooked  one  very  important  cir- 
cumstance. William  does,  indeed,  tell  both  the  stories; 
but  he  gives  us  distinct  notice  that  he  does  not  warrant 
their  truth,  and  that  they  rest  on  no  better  authority 
than  that  of  ballads.1 

Such  is  the  way  in  which  these  two  well-known  tales 
have  been  handed  down.  They  originally  appeared  in 
a  poetical  form.  They  found  their  way  from  ballads 
into  an  old  chronicle.  The  ballads  perished  ;  the 
chronicle  remained.  A  great  historian,  some  centuries 
after  the  ballads  had  been  altogether  forgotten,  con- 
sulted the  chronicle.  He  was  struck  by  the  lively 
coloring  of  these  ancient  fictions  ;  he  transferred  them 
to  his  pages  ;  and  thus  we  find  inserted,  as  unquestion- 
able facts,  in  a  narrative  which  is  likely  to  last  as  long 
as  the  English  tongue,  the  inventions  of  some  minstrel 
whose  works  were  probably  never  committed  to  writing, 
whose  name  is  buried  in  oblivion,  and  whose  dialect  has 
become  obsolete.  It  must,  then,  be  admitted  to  be  pos- 
sible, or  rather  highly  probable,  that  the  stories  of 
Romulus  and  Remus,  and  of  the  Horatii  and  Curiatii, 
may  have  had  a  similar  origin. 

Castilian  literature  will  furnish  us  with  another 
parallel  case.  Mariana,  the  classical  historian  of  Spain, 
tells  the  story  of  the  ill-starred  marriage  which  the 
King  Don  Alonso  brought  about  between  the  heirs  of 
Carrion  and  the  two  daughters  of  the  Cid.  The  Cid 
bestowed  a  princely  dower  on  his  sons-in-law.  But  the 

1  "  lufamias  quas  post  dicam  magis  respersertmt  cantilenas." 
Edgar  appears  to  have  been  most  mercilessly  treated  in  the 
Anglo-Saxon  ballads.  He  was  the  favorite  of  the  monks  ;  and 
the  monks  and  minstrels  were  at  deadly  feud. 


24  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome 

young  men  were  base  and  proud,  cowardly  and  cruel. 
They  were  tried  in  danger,  and  found  wanting.  They 
fled  before  the  Moors,  and  once,  when  a  lion  broke  out 
of  his  den,  they  ran  and  crouched  in  an  unseemly  hid- 
ing-place. They  knew  that  they  were  despised,  and 
took  counsel  how  they  might  be  avenged.  They  parted 
from  their  father-in-law  with  many  signs  of  love,  and 
set  forth  on  a  journey  with  Dona  Elvira  and  t)ona  Sol. 
In  a  solitary  place  the  bridegrooms  seized  their  brides, 
stripped  them,  scourged  them,  and  departed,  leaving 
them  for  dead.  But  one  of  the  House  of  Bivar,  sus- 
pecting foul  play,  had  followed  the  travellers  in  dis- 
guise. The  ladies  were  brought  back  safe  to  the  house 
of  their  father.  Complaint  was  made  to  the  King.  It 
was  adjudged  by  the  Cortes  that  the  dower  given  by 
the  Cid  should  be  returned,  and  that  the  heirs  of  Car- 
rion, together  with  one  of  their  kindred,  should  do 
battle  against  three  knights  of  the  party  of  the  Cid. 
The  guilty  youths  would  have  declined  the  combat ; 
but  all  their  shifts  were  vain.  They  were  vanquished 
in  the  lists,  and  forever  disgraced,  while  their  injured 
wives  were  sought  in  marriage  by  great  princes.1 

Some  Spanish  writers  have  labored  to  show,  by  an 
examination  of  dates  and  circumstances,  that  this  story 
is  untrue.  Such  confutation  was  surely  not  needed  ; 
for  the  narrative  is  on  the  face  of  it  a  romance.  How 
it  found  its  way  into  Mariana's  history  is  quite  clear. 
He  acknowledges  his  obligations  to  the  ancient  chron- 
icles ;  and  had  doubtless  before  him  the  Cronica  del 
Famoso  Cavallero  Cid  Ruy  Diez  Campeador,  which 
had  been  printed  as  early  as  the  year  1552.  He  little 
suspected  that  all  the  most  striking  passages  in  this 
1  Mariana,  lib.  x.,  cap.  4. 


Preface  25 

chronicle  were  copied  from  a  poem  of  the  twelfth  cen- 
tury, a  poem  of  which  the  language  and  versification 
had  long  been  obsolete,  but  which  glowed  with  no 
common  portion  of  the  fire  of  the  Iliad.  Yet  such  was 
the  fact.  More  than  a  century  and  a  half  after  the 
death  of  Mariana,  this  venerable  ballad,  of  which  one 
imperfect  copy  on  parchment,  four  hundred  years  old, 
had  been  preserved  at  Bivar,  was  for  the  first  time 
printed.  Then  it  was  found  that  every  interesting  cir- 
cumstance of  the  story  of  the  heirs  of  Carrion  was  de- 
rived by  the  eloquent  Jesuit  from  a  song  of  which  he 
had  never  heard,  and  which  was  composed  by  a  min- 
strel whose  very  name  had  long  been  forgotten.1 

Such,  or  nearly  such,  appears  to  have  been  the  pro- 
cess by  which  the  lost  ballad-poetry  of  Rome  was 
transformed  into  history.  To  reverse  that  process,  to 
transform  some  portions  of  early  Roman  history  back 
into  the  poetry  out  of  which  they  were  made,  is  the 
object  of  this  work. 

In  the  following  poems  the  author  speaks,  not  in  his 
own  person,  but  in  the  persons  of  ancient  minstrels  who 
know  only  what  a  Roman  citizen,  born  three  or  four 
hundred  years  before  the  Christian  era,  may  be  sup- 
posed to  have  known,  and  who  are  in  nowise  above  the 
passions  and  prejudices  of  their  age  and  nation.  To 
these  imaginary  poets  must  be  ascribed  some  blunders 
which  are  so  obvious  that  it  is  unnecessary  to  point 
them  out.  The  real  blunder  would  have  been  to  repre- 

1  See  the  account  which  Sanchez  gives  of  the  Bivar  manu- 
script in  the  first  volume  of  the  Coleccion  de  Poesias  Castellanas 
anteriores  al  Siglo  XV.  Part  of  the  story  of  the  Lords  of  Car- 
rion, in  the  poem  of  the  Cid,  has  been  translated  by  Mr,  Frere 
in  a  manner  above  all  praise. 


26  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome 

sent  these  old  poets  as  deeply  versed  in  general  history, 
and  studious  of  chronological  accuracy.  To  them  must 
also  be  attributed  the  illiberal  sneers  at  the  Greeks,  the 
furious  party-spirit,  the  contempt  for  the  arts  of  peace, 
the  love  of  war  for  its  own  sake,  the  ungenerous  ex- 
ultation over  the  vanquished,  which  the  reader  will 
sometimes  observe.  To  portray  a  Roman  of  the  age 
of  Camillus  or  Curius  as  superior  to  national  antipathies, 
as  mourning  over  the  devastation  and  slaughter  by 
which  empire  and  triumphs  were  to  be  won,  as  looking 
on  human  suffering  with  the  sympathy  of  Howard,  or 
as  treating  conquered  enemies  with  the  delicacy  of  the 
Black  Prince  would  be  to  violate  all  dramatic  propriety. 
The  old  Romans  had  some  great  virtues — fortitude, 
temperance,  veracity,  spirit  to  resist  oppression,  respect 
for  legitimate  authority,  fidelity  in  the  observing  of 
contracts,  disinterestedness,  ardent  patriotism ;  but 
Christian  charity  and  chivalrous  generosity  were  alike 
unknown  to  them. 

It  would  have  been  obviously  improper  to  mimic  the 
manner  of  any  particular  age  or  country.  Something 
has  been  borrowed,  however,  from  our  own  old  ballads, 
and  more  from  Sir  Walter  Scott,  the  great  restorer  of 
our  ballad-poetry.  To  the  Iliad  still  greater  obligations 
are  due  ;  and  those  obligations  have  been  contracted 
with  the  less  hesitation  because  there  is  reason  to  be- 
lieve that  some  of  the  old  Latin  minstrels  really  had 
recourse  to  that  inexhaustible  store  of  poetical  images. 

It  would  have  been  easy  to  swell  this  little  volume  to 
a  very  considerable  bulk  by  appending  notes  filled  with 
quotations  :  but  to  a  learned  reader  such  notes  are  not 
necessary  ;  for  an  unlearned  reader  they  would  have 
little  interest ;  and  the  judgment  passed  both  by  the 


Preface 


27 


learned  and  by  the  unlearned  on  a  work  of  the  imagin- 
ation will  always  depend  much  more  on  the  general 
character  and  spirit  of  such  a  work  than  on  minute 
details. 


HORATIUS 


HORATIUS 

THERE  can  be  little  doubt  that  among  those  parts 
of  early  Roman  history  which  had  a  poetical 
origin  was  the  legend  of  Horatius  Codes.  We  have 
several  versions  of  the  story,  and  these  versions  differ 
from  each  other  in  points  of  no  small  importance. 
Polybius,  there  is  reason  to  believe,  heard  the  tale 
recited  over  the  remains  of  some  consul  or  praetor  de- 
scended from  the  old  Horatian  patricians  ;  for  he  intro- 
duces it  as  a  specimen  of  the  narratives  with  which  the 
Romans  were  in  the  habit  of  embellishing  their  funeral 
oratory.  It  is  remarkable  that,  according  to  him, 
Horatius  defended  the  bridge  alone,  and  perished  in 
the  waters.  According  to  the  chronicles  which  L,ivy 
and  Dionysius  followed,  Horatius  had  two  companions, 
swam  safe  to  shore,  and  was  loaded  with  honors  and 
rewards. 

These  discrepancies  are  easily  explained.  Our  own 
literature,  indeed,  will  furnish  an  exact  parallel  to  what 
may  have  taken  place  at  Rome.  It  is  highly  probable 
that  the  memory  of  the  war  of  Porsena  was  preserved 
by  compositions  much  resembling  the  two  ballads 
which  stand  first  in  the  Reliques  of  Ancient  English 
Poetry.  In  both  those  ballads  the  English,  com- 
manded by  the  Percy,  fight  with  the  Scots,  commanded 

31 


32  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome 

by  the  Douglas.  In  one  of  the  ballads  the  Douglas  is 
killed  by  a  nameless  English  archer,  and  the  Percy 
by  a  Scottish  spearman  ;  in  the  other,  the  Percy  slays 
the  Douglas  in  single  combat,  and  is  himself  made 
prisoner.  In  the  former,  Sir  Hugh  Montgomery  is 
shot  through  the  heart  by  a  Northumbrian  bowman  ; 
in  the  latter  he  is  taken  and  exchanged  for  the  Percy. 
Yet  both  the  ballads  relate  to  the  same  event,  and 
that  an  event  which  probably  took  place  within  the 
memory  of  persons  who  were  alive  when  both  the  bal- 
lads were  made.  One  of  the  minstrels  says, 

"  Old  men  that  knowen  the  grounde  well  yenoughe 
Call  it  the  battell  of  Otter  burn  : 
At  Otterburn  began  this  spurne 
Upon  a  monnyn  day. 
Ther  was  the  dougghte  Doglas  slean  : 
The  Perse  never  went  away." 

The  other  poet  sums  up  the  event  in  the  following  lines: 

"  Thys  fraye  bygan  at  Otterborne 
Bytwene  the  nyghte  and  the  day  : 
Ther  the  Dowglas  lost  hys  lyfe, 
And  the  Percy  was  lede  away." 

It  is  by  no  means  unlikely  that  there  were  two  old 
Roman  lays  about  the  defence  of  the  bridge  ;  and  that, 
while  the  story  which  L,ivy  has  transmitted  to  us  was 
preferred  by  the  multitude,  the  other,  which  ascribed 
the  whole  glory  to  Horatius  alone,  may  have  been  the 
favorite  with  the  Horatian  house. 

The  following  ballad  is  supposed  to  have  been  made 
about  a  hundred  and  twenty  years  after  the  war  which 
it  celebrates,  and  just  before  the  taking  of  Rome  by  the 


Horatius  33 

Gauls.  The  author  seems  to  have  been  an  honest 
citizen,  proud  of  the  military  glory  of  his  country,  sick 
of  the  disputes  of  factions,  and  much  given  to  pining 
after  good  old  times  which  had  never  really  existed. 
The  allusion,  however,  to  the  partial  manner  in  which 
the  public  lands  were  allotted  could  proceed  only  from 
a  plebeian  ;  and  the  allusion  to  the  fraudulent  sale  of 
spoils  marks  the  date  of  the  poem,  and  shows  that  the 
poet  shared  in  the  general  discontent  with  which  the 
proceedings  of  Camttlus,  after  the  taking  of  Veil,  were 
regarded. 

The  penultimate  syllable  of  the  name  Porsena  has 
been  shortened  in  spite  of  the  authority  of  Niebuhr, 
who  pronounces,  without  assigning  any  ground  for 
his  opinion,  that  Martial  was  guilty  of  a  decided  blun- 
der in  the  line 

"  Hanc  spectare  manum  Porsena  non  potuit." 

It  is  not  easy  to  understand  how  any  modern  scholar, 
whatever  his  attainments  may  be — and  those  of  Nie- 
buhr were  undoubtedly  immense — can  venture  to  pro- 
nounce that  Martial  did  not  know  the  quantity  of  a 
word  which  he  must  have  uttered  and  heard  uttered  a 
hundred  times  before  he  left  school.  Niebuhr  seems 
also  to  have  forgotten  that  Martial  has  fellow-culprits  to 
keep  him  in  countenance.  Horace  has  committed  the 
same  decided  blunder;  for  he  gives  us,  as  a  pure  iambic 
line, 

"  Minacis  aut  Etrusca  Porsenae  manus." 

Silius  Italicus  has  repeatedly  offended  in  the  same  way, 
as  when  he  says, 

"  Cernitur  effugiens  ardentem  Porsena  dextram  ; " 


34  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome 

and,  again, 

"  Clusinum  vulgus,  cum,  Porsena  magne,  jubebas." 

A  modern  writer  may  be  content  to  err  in  such  com- 
pany. 

Niebuhr's  supposition  that  each  of  the  three  de- 
fenders of  the  bridge  was  the  representative  of  one  of 
the  three  patrician  tribes  is  both  ingenious  and  prob- 
able, and  has  been  adopted  in  the  following  poem. 


HORATIUS 


A  LAY  MADE  ABOUT  THE  YEAR  OF  THE  CITY  CCCLX 


LARS  PORSENA  of  Clusium 
By  the  Nine  Gods  he  swore 
That  the  great  house  of  Tarquin 
Should  suffer  wrong  no  more. 
By  the  Nine  Gods  he  swore  it, 
And  named  a  trysting-day, 
And  bade  his  messengers  ride  forth, 
East  and  west,  and  south  and  north, 
To  summon  his  array. 


East  and  west,  and  south  and  north, 

The  messengers  ride  fast, 
And  tower  and  town  and  cottage 

Have  heard  the  trumpet's  blast. 
Shame  on  the  false  Etruscan 

Who  lingers  in  his  home, 
When  Porsena  of  Clusium 

Is  on  the  march  for  Rome. 

35 


36  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome 

in 

The  horsemen  and  the  footmen 

Are  pouring  in  amain 
From  many  a  stately  market-place, 

From  many  a  fruitful  plain  ; 
From  many  a  lonely  hamlet, 

Which,  hid  by  beech  and  pine, 
Like  an  eagle's  nest,  hangs  on  the  crest 

Of  purple  Apennine ; 

IV 
From  lordly  Volaterrae, 

Where  scowls  the  far-famed  hold 
Piled  by  the  hands  of  giants 

For  godlike  kings  of  old  ; 
From  sea-girt  Populonia, 

Whose  sentinels  descry 
Sardinia's  snowy  mountain- tops 

Fringing  the  southern  sky  ; 

V 
From  the  proud  mart  of  Pisae, 

Queen  of  the  western  waves, 
Where  ride  Massilia's  triremes 

Heavy  with  fair-haired  slaves  ; 
From  where  sweet  Clanis  wanders 

Through  corn  and  vines  and  flowers ; 
From  where  Cortona  lifts  to  heaven 

Her  diadem  of  towers. 

VI 

Tall  are  the  oaks  whose  acorns 
Drop  in  dark  Auser's  rill ; 


Horatius  37 

Fat  are  the  stags  that  champ  the  boughs 

Of  the  Ciminian  hill ; 
Beyond  all  streams  Clitumnus 

Is  to  the  herdsman  dear  ; 
Best  of  all  pools  the  fowler  loves 

The  great  Volsinian  mere. 

VII 

But  now  no  stroke  of  woodman 

Is  heard  by  Auser's  rill ; 
No  hunter  tracks  the  stag's  green  path 

Up  the  Ciminian  hill ; 
Unwatched  along  Clitumnus 

Grazes  the  milk-white  steer  ; 
Unharmed  the  water-fowl  may  dip 

In  the  Volsinian  mere. 

VIII 

The  harvests  of  Arretium 

This  year  old  men  shall  reap  ; 
This  year  young  boys  in  Umbro 

Shall  plunge  the  struggling  sheep  ; 
And  in  the  vats  of  Luna 

This  year  the  must  shall  foam 
Round  the  white  feet  of  laughing  girls 

Whose  sires  have  marched  to  Rome. 

IX 

There  be  thirty  chosen  prophets, 

The  wisest  of  the  land, 
Who  alway  by  Lars  Porsena 

Both  morn  and  evening  stand  ; 


38  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome 

Evening  and  morn  the  Thirty 
Have  turned  the  verses  o'er, 

Traced  from  the  right  on  linen  white 
By  mighty  seers  of  yore. 


And  with  one  voice  the  Thirty 

Have  their  glad  answer  given  : 
' '  Go  forth,  go  forth,  Lars  Porsena  ; 

Go  forth,  beloved  of  Heaven  ; 
Go,  and  return  in  glory 

To  Clusium's  royal  dome, 
And  hang  round  Nurscia's  altars 

The  golden  shields  of  Rome." 

XI 

And  now  hath  every  city 

Sent  up  her  tale  of  men  ; 
The  foot  are  fourscore  thousand, 

The  horse  are  thousands  ten. 
Before  the  gates  of  Sutrium 

Is  met  the  great  array. 
A  proud  man  was  Lars  Porsena 

Upon  the  trysting-day. 

XII 

For  all  the  Etruscan  armies 
Were  ranged  beneath  his  eye, 

And  many  a  banished  Roman, 
And  many  a  stout  ally  ; 

And  with  a  mighty  following 
To  join  the  muster  came 


Horatius  39 

The  Tusculan  Mamilius, 
Prince  of  the  Latian  name. 

XIII 

But  by  the  yellow  Tiber 

Was  tumult  and  affright  : 
From  all  the  spacious  champaign 

To  Rome  men  took  their  flight. 
A  mile  around  the  city 

The  throng  stopped  up  the  ways  ; 
A  fearful  sight  it  was  to  see 

Through  two  long  nights  and  days. 

XIV 

For  aged  folks  on  crutches, 

And  women  great  with  child, 
And  mothers  sobbing  over  babes 

That  clung  to  them  and  smiled, 
And  sick  men  borne  in  litters 

High  on  the  necks  of  slaves, 
And  troops  of  sunburned  husbandmen 

With  reaping-hooks  and  staves, 

xv 

And  droves  of  mules  and  asses  > 

Laden  with  skins  of  wine, 
And  endless  flocks  of  goats  and  sheep, 

And  endless  herds  of  kine, 
And  endless  trains  of  wagons 

That  creaked  beneath  the  weight 
Of  corn-sacks  and  of  household  goods, 

Choked  every  roaring  gate. 


40  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome 

XVI 

Now  from  the  rock  Tarpeian 

Could  the  wan  burghers  spy 
The  line  of  blazing  villages 

Red  in  the  midnight  sky. 
The  Fathers  of  the  City, 

They  sat  all  night  and  day, 
For  every  hour  some  horseman  came 

With  tidings  of  dismay. 

XVII 

To  eastward  and  to  westward 

Have  spread  the  Tuscan  bands  ; 
Nor  house  nor  fence  nor  dovecot 

In  Crustumerium  stands. 
Verbenna  down  to  Ostia 

Hath  wasted  all  the  plain  ; 
Astur  hath  stormed  Janiculum, 

And  the  stout  guards  are  slain. 

XVIII 

I  wis,  in  all  the  Senate, 

There  was  no  heart  so  bold 
But  sore  it  ached,  and  fast  it  beat, 

When  that  ill  news  was  told. 
Forthwith  up  rose  the  Consul, 

Up  rose  the  Fathers  all ; 
In  haste  they  girded  up  their  gowns, 

And  hied  them  to  the  wall. 

XIX 

They  held  a  council  standing 
Before  the  River  Gate  ; 


Horatius  41 

Short  time  was  there,  ye  well  may  guess, 

For  musing  or  debate. 
Out  spake  the  Consul  roundly, 

"  The  bridge  must  straight  go  down  ; 
For,  since  Janiculum  is  lost, 

Naught  else  can  save  the  town." 


xx 

Just  then  a  scout  came  flying, 

All  wild  with  haste  and  fear  ; 
"  To  arms  !  to  arms  !  Sir  Consul ; 

Lars  Porsena  is  here." 
On  the  low  hills  to  westward 

The  Consul  fixed  his  eye, 
And  saw  the  swarthy  storm  of  dust 

Rise  fast  along  the  sky. 

XXI 

And  nearer  fast,  and  nearer, 

Doth  the  red  whirlwind  come  ; 
And  louder  still,  and  still  more  loud, 
From  underneath  that  rolling  cloud, 
Is  heard  the  trumpet's  war- note  proud, 

The  trampling,  and  the  hum. 
And  plainly  and  more  plainly 

Now  through  the  gloom  appears, 
Far  to  left  and  far  to  right, 
In  broken  gleams  of  dark-blue  light, 
The  long  array  of  helmets  bright, 

The  long  array  of  spears. 


42  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome 

XXII 

And  plainly  and  more  plainly, 

Above  that  glimmering  line, 
Now  might  ye  see  the  banners 

Of  twelve  fair  cities  shine  ; 
But  the  banner  of  proud  Clusium 

Was  highest  of  them  all, 
The  terror  of  the  Umbrian, 

The  terror  of  the  Gaul. 

xxni 

And  plainly  and  more  plainly 

Now  might  the  burghers  know, 
By  port  and  vest,  by  horse  and  crest, 

Bach  warlike  Lucumo. 
There  Cilnius  of  Arretium 

On  his  fleet  roan  was  seen  ; 
And  Astur  of  the  fourfold  shield, 
Girt  with  the  brand  none  else  may  wield, 
Tolumnius  with  the  belt  of  gold, 
And  dark  Verbenna  from  the  hold 

By  reedy  Thrasymene. 

xxiv 

Fast  by  the  royal  standard, 

O'erlooking  all  the  war, 
Lars  Porsena  of  Clusium 

Sat  in  his  ivory  car. 
By  the  right  wheel  rode  Mamilius, 

Prince  of  the  Latian  name  ; 
And  by  the  left  false  Sextus, 

That  wrought  the  deed  of  shame. 


Horatius  43 

XXV 

But  when  the  face  of  Sextus 

Was  seen  among  the  foes, 
A  yell  that  rent  the  firmament 

From  all  the  town  arose. 
On  the  house-tops  was  no  woman 

But  spat  towards  him  and  hissed, 
No  child  but  screamed  out  curses 

And  shook  its  little  fist. 

XXVI 

But  the  Consul's  brow  was  sad, 

And  the  Consul's  speech  was  low, 
And  darkly  looked  he  at  the  wall, 

And  darkly  at  the  foe. 
"  Their  van  will  be  upon  us 

Before  the  bridge  goes  down  ; 
And  if  they  once  may  win  the  bridge, 

What  hope  to  save  the  town  ?  '  * 

XXVII 

Then  out  spake  brave  Horatius, 

The  Captain  of  the  Gate  : 
11  To  every  man  upon  this  earth 

Death  cometh  soon  or  late. 
And  how  can  man  die  better 

Than  facing  fearful  odds, 
For  the  ashes  of  his  fathers 

And  the  temples  of  his  gods, 

XXVIII 

"  And  for  the  tender  mother 
Who  dandled  him  to  rest, 


44  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome 

And  for  the  wife  who  nurses 
His  baby  at  her  breast, 

And  for  the  holy  maidens 
Who  feed  the  eternal  flame, 

To  save  them  from  false  Sextus 
That  wrought  the  deed  of  shame  ? 


XXIX 

"  Hew  down  the  bridge,  Sir  Consul, 

With  all  the  speed  ye  may  ; 
I,  with  two  more  to  help  me, 

Will  hold  the  foe  in  play. 
In  yon  strait  path  a  thousand 

May  well  be  stopped  by  three. 
Now  who  will  stand  on  either  hand, 

And  keep  the  bridge  with  me  ?  " 

XXX 

Then  out  spake  Spurius  I^artius  ; 

A  Ramnian  proud  was  he  : 
"  L,o,  I  will  stand  at  thy  right  hand, 

And  keep  the  bridge  with  thee.'* 
And  out  spake  strong  Herminius  ; 

Of  Titian  blood  was  he  : 
"  I  will  abide  on  thy  left  side, 

And  keep  the  bridge  with  thee." 

XXXI 

"  Horatius,"  quoth  the  Consul, 
"  As  thou  sayest,  so  let  it  be." 


Horatius  45 

And  straight  against  that  great  array 
Forth  went  the  dauntless  Three. 

For  Romans  in  Rome's  quarrel 
Spared  neither  land  nor  gold, 

Nor  son  nor  wife,  nor  limb  nor  life, 
In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

XXXII 

Then  none  was  for  a  party  ; 

Then  all  were  for  the  State  ; 
Then  the  great  man  helped  the  poor, 

And  the  poor  man  loved  the  great : 
Then  lands  were  fairly  portioned  ; 

Then  spoils  were  fairly  sold  ; 
The  Romans  were  like  brothers 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

xxxni 

Now  Roman  is  to  Roman 

More  hateful  than  a  foe  ; 
And  the  Tribunes  beard  the  high, 

And  the  Fathers  grind  the  low. 
As  we  wax  hot  in  faction, 

In  battle  we  wax  cold  : 
Wherefore  men  fight  not  as  they  fought 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

xxxiv 

Now  while  the  Three  were  tightening 
Their  harness  on  their  backs, 


46  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome 

The  Consul  was  the  foremost  man 
To  take  in  hand  an  axe  ; 

And  Fathers  mixed  with  Commons 
Seized  hatchet,  bar,  and  crow, 

And  smote  upon  the  planks  above, 
And  loosed  the  props  below. 


XXXV 

Meanwhile  the  Tuscan  army, 

Right  glorious  to  behold, 
Come  flashing  back  the  noonday  light, 
Rank  behind  rank,  like  surges  bright 

Of  a  broad  sea  of  gold. 
Four  hundred  trumpets  sounded 

A  peal  of  warlike  glee, 
As  that  great  host,  with  measured  tread, 
And  spears  advanced,  and  ensigns  spread, 
Rolled  slowly  towards  the  bridge's  head, 

Where  stood  the  dauntless  Three. 


XXXVI 

The  Three  stood  calm  and  silent, 

And  looked  upon  the  foes, 
And  a  great  shout  of  laughter 

From  all  the  vanguard  rose  ; 
And  forth  three  chiefs  came  spurring 

Before  that  deep  array  : 

To  earth  they  sprang,  their  swords  they  drew, 
And  lifted  high  their  shields,  and  flew 

To  win  the  narrow  way  ; 


J*  '  •/  J 
IM 


Horatius  47 

XXXVII 

Aunus  from  green  Tifernum, 

Lord  of  the  Hill  of  Vines  ; 
And  Seius,  whose  eight  hundred  slaves 

Sicken  in  Ilva's  mines  ; 
And  Picus,  long  to  Clusium 

Vassal  in  peace  and  war, 
Who  led  to  fight  his  Umbrian  powers 
From  that  gray  crag  where,  girt  with  towers, 
The  fortress  of  Nequinum  lowers 

O'er  the  pale  waves  of  Nar. 

XXXVIII 

Stout  L,artius  hurled  down  Aunus 

Into  the  stream  beneath  ; 
Herminius  struck  at  Seius, 

And  clove  him  to  the  teeth  ; 
At  Picus  brave  Horatius 

Darted  one  fiery  thrust, 
And  the  proud  Umbrian' s  gilded  arms 

Clashed  in  the  bloody  dust. 

XXXIX 

Then  Ocnus  of  Falerii 

Rushed  on  the  Roman  Three  ; 
And  Lausulus  of  Urgo, 

The  rover  of  the  sea  ; 
And  Aruns  of  Volsinium, 

Who  slew  the  great  wild  boar, 
The  great  wild  boar  that  had  his  den 
Amidst  the  reeds  of  Cosa's  fen, 
And  wasted  fields  and  slaughtered  men 

Along  Albinia's  shore. 


48  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome 

XL 

Herminius  smote  down  Artms  ; 

Lartius  laid  Ocnus  low  ; 
Right  to  the  heart  of  Lausulus 

Horatius  sent  a  blow. 
"  Lie  there,"  he  cried,  "  fell  pirate  ! 

No  more,  aghast  and  pale, 
From  Ostia's  walls  the  crowd  shall  mark 
The  track  of  thy  destroying  bark. 
No  more  Campania's  hinds  shall  fly 
To  woods  and  caverns  when  they  spy 

Thy  thrice  accursed  sail." 

xw 

But  now  no  sound  of  laughter 

Was  heard  among  the  foes. 
A  wild  and  wrathful  clamor 

From  all  the  vanguard  rose. 
Six  spears'  lengths  from  the  entrance 

Halted  that  deep  array, 
And  for  a  space  no  man  came  forth 

To  win  the  narrow  way. 

xui 

But  hark  !  the  cry  is  Astur ; 

And  lo!  the  ranks  divide  ; 
And  the  great  Lord  of  Luna 

Comes  with  his  stately  stride. 
Upon  his  ample  shoulders 

Clangs  loud  the  fourfold  shield, 
And  in  his  hand  he  shakes  the  brand 

Which  none  but  he  can  wield. 


f    ?'^"?-   X^"2>£« 


Horatius  49 

XLIII 

He  smiled  on  those  bold  Romans 

A  smile  serene  and  high  ; 
He  eyed  the  flinching  Tuscans, 

And  scorn  was  in  his  eye. 
Quoth  he,  "  The  she- wolf 's  litter 

Stand  savagely  at  bay  ; 
But  will  ye  dare  to  follow, 

If  Astur  clears  the  way  ?  " 

xwv 

Then,  whirling  up  his  broadsword 

With  both  hands  to  the  height, 
He  rushed  against  Horatius, 

And  smote  with  all  his  might. 
With  shield  and  blade  Horatius 

Right  deftly  turned  the  blow. 
The  blow,  though  turned,  came  yet  too  nigh  ; 
It  missed  his  helm,  but  gashed  his  thigh  : 
The  Tuscans  raised  a  joyful  cry 

To  see  the  red  blood  flow. 

xi,v 

He  reeled,  and  on  Herminius 

He  leaned  one  breathing-space  ; 
Then,  like  a  wild  cat  mad  with  wounds, 

Sprang  right  at  Astur 's  face. 
Through  teeth  and  skull  and  helmet 

So  fierce  a  thrust  he  sped, 
The  good  sword  stood  a  hand-breadth  out 

Behind  the  Tuscan's  head. 


50  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome 


And  the  great  Lord  of  I^una 

Fell  at  that  deadly  stroke, 
As  falls  on  Mount  Alvernus 

A  thunder-smitten  oak. 
Far  o'er  the  crashing  forest 

The  giant  arms  lie  spread  ; 
And  the  pale  augurs,  muttering  low, 

Gaze  on  the  blasted  head. 

XI.VII 

On  Astur's  throat  Horatius 

Right  firmly  pressed  his  heel, 
And  thrice  and  four  times  tugged  amain 

Ere  he  wrenched  out  the  steel. 
11  And  see,"  he  cried,  "  the  welcome, 

Fair  guests,  that  waits  you  here  ! 
What  noble  Lucumo  comes  next 

To  taste  our  Roman  cheer  ?  " 

XI,  VIII 

But  at  his  haughty  challenge 

A  sullen  murmur  ran, 
Mingled  of  wrath  and  shame  and  dread, 

Along  that  glittering  van. 
There  lacked  not  men  of  prowess, 

Nor  men  of  lordly  race  ; 
For  all  Etruria's  noblest 

Were  round  the  fatal  place. 

xux 

But  all  Etruria's  noblest 
Felt  their  hearts  sink  to  see 


Horatius  51 

On  the  earth  the  bloody  corpses, 

In  the  path  the  dauntless  Three  ; 
And,  from  the  ghastly  entrance 

Where  those  bold  Romans  stood, 
All  shrank,  like  boys  who,  unaware, 
Ranging  the  woods  to  start  a  hare, 
Come  to  the  mouth  of  the  dark  lair 
Where,  growling  low,  a  fierce  old  bear 
I4es  amidst  bones  and  blood. 


Was  none  who  would  be  foremost 

To  lead  such  dire  attack  ; 
But  those  behind  cried  "  Forward  ! 

And  those  before  cried  "  Back  !  " 
And  backward  now  and  forward 

Wavers  the  deep  array  ; 
And  on  the  tossing  sea  of  steel, 
To  and  fro  the  standards  reel ; 
And  the  victorious  trumpet-peal 

Dies  fitfully  away. 


lit 


Yet  one  man  for  one  moment 

Strode  out  before  the  crowd  ; 
Well  known  was  he  to  all  the  Three, 

And  they  gave  him  greeting  loud. 
"  Now  welcome,  welcome,  Sextus  ! 

Now  welcome  to  thy  home  ! 
Why  dost  thou  stay  and  turn  away  ? 

Here  lies  the  road  to  Rome. ' ' 


52  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome 

ui 

Thrice  looked  he  at  the  city  ; 

Thrice  looked  he  at  the  dead  ; 
And  thrice  came  on  in  fury, 

And  thrice  turned  back  in  dread  ; 
And,  white  with  fear  and  hatred, 

Scowled  at  the  narrow  way 
Where,  wallowing  in  a  pool  of  blood, 

The  bravest  Tuscans  lay. 

Mil 

But  meanwhile  axe  and  lever 

Have  manfully  been  plied  ; 
And  now  the  bridge  hangs  tottering 

Above  the  boiling  tide. 
"  Come  back,  come  back,  Horatius  !  " 

lyoud  cried  the  Fathers  all. 
"  Back,  I^artius  !  back,  Herminius  I 

Back,  ere  the  ruin  fall  !  " 

uv 

Back  darted  Spurius  L,artius  ; 

Herminius  darted  back  ; 
And,  as  they  passed,  beneath  their  feet 

They  felt  the  timbers  crack. 
But  when  they  turned  their  faces, 

And  on  the  farther  shore 
Saw  brave  Horatius  stand  alone, 

They  would  have  crossed  once  more. 


But  with  a  crash  like  thunder 
Fell  every  loosened  beam, 


Horatius  53 

And,  like  a  dam,  the  mighty  wreck 

Lay  right  athwart  the  stream  ; 
And  a  long  shout  of  triumph 

Rose  from  the  walls  of  Rome, 
As  to  the  highest  turret-tops 

Was  splashed  the  yellow  foam. 


And,  like  a  horse  unbroken 

When  first  he  feels  the  rein, 
The  furious  river  struggled  hard, 

And  tossed  his  tawny  mane, 
And  burst  the  curb  and  bounded, 

Rejoicing  to  be  free, 
And  whirling  down,  in  fierce  career, 
Battlement  and  plank  and  pier, 

Rushed  headlong  to  the  sea. 

I.VII 

Alone  stood  brave  Horatius, 

But  constant  still  in  mind  ; 
Thrice  thirty  thousand  foes  before, 

And  the  broad  flood  behind. 
"  Down  with  him  !  "  cried  false  Sextus> 

With  a  smile  on  his  pale  face. 
"  Now  yield  thee,"  cried  Lars  Porsena, 

"  Now  yield  thee  to  our  grace.  ".- 


Round  turned  he,  as  not  deigning 
Those  craven  ranks  to  see  ; 

Naught  spake  he  to  Lars  Porsena, 
To  Sextus  naught  spake  he  ; 


54  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome 

But  he  saw  on  Palatinus 
The  white  porch  of  his  home  ; 

And  he  spake  to  the  noble  river 
That  rolls  by  the  towers  of  Rome, 

LIZ 

"  Oh,  Tiber  !  father  Tiber  ! 

To  whom  the  Romans  pray, 
A  Roman's  life,  a  Roman's  arms, 

Take  thou  in  charge  this  day  !  " 
So  he  spake,  and,  speaking,  sheathed 

The  good  sword  by  his  side, 
And,  with  his  harness  on  his  back, 

Plunged  headlong  in  the  tide. 

we 

No  sound  of  joy  or  sorrow 

Was  heard  from  either  bank  ; 
But  friends  and  foes  in  dumb  surprise, 
With  parted  lips  and  straining  eyes, 

Stood  gazing  where  he  sank  ; 
And  when  above  the  surges 

They  saw  his  crest  appear, 
All  Rome  sent  forth  a  rapturous  cry, 
And  even  the  ranks  of  Tuscany 

Could  scarce  forbear  to  cheer. 

txx 

But  fiercely  ran  the  current, 

Swollen  high  by  months  of  rain  ; 

And  fast  his  blood  was  flowing, 
And  he  was  sore  in  pain, 


"  No  sound  of  joy  or  sorrow 

Was  heard  from  either  bank  ; 
But  friends  and  foes  in  dumb  surprise, 
With  parted  lips  and  straining  eyes, 
Stood  gazing  where  he  sank." 

HoRATirs,  LX. 


Horatius  55 

And  heavy  with  his  armor, 
And  spent  with  changing  blows  ; 

And  oft  they  thought  him  sinking, 
But  still  again  he  rose. 

LXII 

Never,  I  ween,  did  swimmer, 

In  such  an  evil  case, 
Struggle  through  such  a  raging  flood 

Safe  to  the  landing-place  ; 
But  his  limbs  were  borne  up  bravely 

By  the  brave  heart  within, 
And  our  good  father  Tiber 

Bare  bravely  up  his  chin.1 


"  Curse  on  him  !  "  quoth  false  Sextus  ; 

"  Will  not  the  villain  drown  ? 
But  for  this  stay,  ere  close  of  day 

We  should  have  sacked  the  town  !  " 
"  Heaven  help  him  !  "  quoth  Lars  Porsena; 

"  And  bring  him  safe  to  shore  ; 
For  such  a  gallant  feat  of  arms 

Was  never  seen  before." 

1  "  Our  ladye  bare  upp  her  chinne." 

Ballad  ofChilde  Waters. 
"  Never  a  heavier  man  and  horse 
Stemmed  a  midnight  torrent's  force  ; 

Yet,  through  good  heart  and  our  Lady's  grace, 
At  length  he  gained  the  landing-place." 

Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel,  L 


56  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome 

I.XIV 


• 


And  now  he  feels  the  bottom  ; 

Now  on  dry  earth  he  stands  ; 
Now  round  him  throng  the  Fathers 

To  press  his  gory  hands  ; 
And  now,  with  shouts  and  clapping, 

And  noise  of  weeping  loud, 
He  enters  through  the  River  Gate, 

Borne  by  the  joyous  crowd. 

i,xv 

They  gave  him  of  the  corn-land, 

That  was  of  public  right, 
As  much  as  two  strong  oxen 

Could  plough  from  morn  till  night ; 
And  they  made  a  molten  image, 

And  set  it  up  on  high, 
And  there  it  stands  unto  this  day 

To  witness  if  I  lie. 

I<XVI 

It  stands  in  the  Comitium, 

Plain  for  all  folks  to  see  ; 
Horatius  in  his  harness, 

Halting  upon  one  knee  : 
And  underneath  is  written, 

In  letters  all  of  gold, 
How  valiantly  he  kept  the  bridge 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 


Horatius  57 

LXVII 

And  still  his  name  sounds  stirring 

Unto  the  men  of  Rome, 
As  the  trumpet-blast  that  cries  to  them 

To  charge  the  Volscian  home  ; 
And  wives  still  pray  to  Juno 

For  boys  with  hearts  as  bold 
As  his  who  kept  the  bridge  so  well 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

i,xvm 

And  in  the  nights  of  winter, 

When  the  cold  north  winds  blow, 
And  the  long  howling  of  the  wolves 

Is  heard  amidst  the  snow  ; 
When  round  the  lonely  cottage 

Roars  loud  the  tempest's  din, 
And  the  good  logs  of  Algidus 

Roar  louder  yet  within  ; 

LXIX 

When  the  oldest  cask  is  opened, 

And  the  largest  lamp  is  lit ; 
When  the  chestnuts  glow  in  the  embers, 

And  the  kid  turns  on  the  spit ; 
When  young  and  old  in  circle 

Around  the  firebrands  close  ; 
When  the  girls  are  weaving  baskets, 

And  the  lads  are  shaping  bows  ; 

i,xx 

When  the  goodman  mends  his  armor, 
And  trims  his  helmet's  plume  ; 


58  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome 

When  the  goodwife's  shuttle  merrily 
Goes  flashing  through  the  loom  ; 

With  weeping  and  with  laughter 
Still  is  the  story  told, 

How  well  Horatius  kept  the  bridge 
In  the  brave  days  of  old. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  LAKE  REGILLUS 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  LAKE  REGILLUS 

THE  following  poem  is  supposed  to  have  been  pra- 
duced  about  ninety  years  after  the  Lay  of  Hora- 
tius.  Some  persons  mentioned  in  the  Lay  of  Horatius 
make  their  appearance  again,  and  some  appellations 
and  epithets  used  in  the  Lay  of  Horatius  have  been  pur- 
posely repeated  ;  for,  in  an  age  of  ballad-poetry,  it 
scarcely  ever  fails  to  happen  that  certain  phrases  come 
to  be  appropriated  to  certain  men  and  things,  and  are 
regularly  applied  to  those  men  and  things  by  every 
minstrel.  Thus  we  find,  both  in  the  Homeric  poems 
and  in  Hesiod,  fiirj  'HpaukrjSirj,  TtepinhvTos 


Sven  rfiJHOfiioio.  Thus,  too,  in  our  own  na- 
tional songs,  Douglas  is  almost  always  the  doughty 
Douglas  ;  England  is  merry  England  ;  all  the  gold  is 
red  ;  and  all  the  ladies  are  gay. 

The  principal  distinction  between  the  Lay  of  Horatius 
and  the  Lay  of  the  Lake  Regillus  is  that  the  former  is 
meant  to  be  purely  Roman,  while  the  latter,  though 
national  in  its  general  spirit,  has  a  slight  tincture  of 
Greek  learning  and  of  Greek  superstition.  The  story 
of  the  Tarquins,  as  it  has  come  down  to  us,  appears  to 
have  been  compiled  from  the  works  of  several  popular 
poets  ;  and  one,  at  least,  of  those  poets  appears  to  have 

61 


62  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome 

visited  the  Greek  colonies  in  Italy,  if  not  Greece  itself, 
and  to  have  had  some  acquaintance  with  the  works  of 
Homer  and  Herodotus.  Many  of  the  most  striking 
adventures  of  the  House  of  Tarquin,  before  Lucretia 
makes  her  appearance,  have  a  Greek  character.  The 
Tarquins  themselves  are  represented  as  Corinthian 
nobles  of  the  great  House  of  the  Bacchiadse,  driven 
from  their  country  by  the  tyranny  of  that  Cypselus 
the  tale  of  whose  strange  escape  Herodotus  has  related 
with  incomparable  simplicity  and  liveliness. 1  lyivy  and 
Dionysius  tell  us  that,  when  Tarquin  the  Proud  was 
asked  what  was  the  best  mode  of  governing  a  conquered 
city,  he  replied  only  by  beating  down  with  his  staff  all 
the  tallest  poppies  in  his  garden.*  This  is  exactly 
what  Herodotus,  in  the  passage  to  which  reference  has 
already  been  made,  relates  of  the  counsel  given  to 
Periander,  the  son  of  Cypselus.  The  stratagem  by 
which  the  town  of  Gabii  is  brought  under  the  power 
of  the  Tarquins  is,  again,  obviously  copied  from  Herod- 
otus.1 The  embassy  of  the  young  Tarquins  to  the 
oracle  at  Delphi  is  just  such  a  story  as  would  be  told 
by  a  poet  whose  head  was  full  of  the  Greek  mythology; 
and  the  ambiguous  answer  returned  by  Apollo  is  in  the 
exact  style  of  the  prophecies  which,  according  to 
Herodotus,  lured  Croesus  to  destruction.  Then  the 
character  of  the  narrative  changes.  From  the  first 
mention  of  Lucretia  to  the  retreat  of  Porsena  nothing 
seems  to  be  borrowed  from  foreign  sources.  The  vil- 
lany  of  Sextus,  the  suicide  of  his  victim,  the  revolution, 
the  death  of  the  sons  of  Brutus,  the  defence  of  the 

1  Herodotus,  v.,  92.    Livy,  i.,  34.     Dionysius,  iii.,  46. 
*  Livy,  i.,  54.     Dionysius,  iv.,  56. 
8  Herodotus,  iii.,  154.    L,ivy,  i.,  53. 


The  Battle  of  the  Lake  Regillus     63 

bridge,  Mucius  burning  his  hand,1  Clcelia  swimming 
through  the  Tiber,  seem  to  be  all  strictly  Roman. 
But  when  we  have  done  with  the  Tuscan  war,  and 
enter  upon  the  war  with  the  Latines,  we  are  again 
struck  by  the  Greek  air  of  the  story.  The  Battle  of 
the  Lake  Regillus  is,  in  all  respects,  a  Homeric  battle, 
except  that  the  combatants  ride  astride  on  their  horses, 
instead  of  driving  chariots.  The  mass  of  fighting-men 
is  hardly  mentioned.  The  leaders  single  each  other 
out,  and  engage  hand  to  hand.  The  great  object  of 
the  warriors  on  both  sides  is,  as  in  the  Iliad,  to  obtain 
possession  of  the  spoils  and  bodies  of  the  slain  ;  and 
several  circumstances  are  related  which  forcibly  remind 
us  of  the  great  slaughter  round  the  corpses  of  Sarpedon 
and  Patroclus. 

But  there  is  one  circumstance  which  deserves  espe- 
cial notice.  Both  the  war  of  Troy  and  the  war  of 
Regillus  were  caused  by  the  licentious  passions  of 
young  princes,  who  were  therefore  peculiarly  bound 
not  to  be  sparing  of  their  own  persons  in  the  day  of 
battle.  Now  the  conduct  of  Sextus  at  Regillus,  as 
described  by  I/ivy,  so  exactly  resembles  that  of  Paris, 
as  described  at  the  beginning  of  the  third  book  of  the 
Iliad,  that  it  is  difficult  to  believe  the  resemblance  acci- 
dental. Paris  appears  before  the  Trojan  ranks,  defy- 
ing the  bravest  Greek  to  encounter  him. 


Tpootilv  nk 

.    .     .    'ApyeiGov  itpoKaX&ro  TtdrraS 

avTifiiov  /j.a%E6a<5Qat  kv  atvij  SIJIOTTJTI. 

1  M.  de  Pouilly  attempted,  a  hundred  and  twenty  years  ago, 
to  prove  that  the  story  of  Mucius  was  of  Greek  origin  ;  but  he 
was  signally  confuted  by  the  Abbe*  Sallier.  See  the  M&moires 
dc  VAcad&mie  des  Inscriptions  >  vi.,  27,  66. 


64  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome 

Livy  introduces  Sextus  in  a  similar  manner  :  "  Fero- 
cem  juvenem  Tarquinium,  ostentantem  se  in  prima 
exsulum  acie."  Menelaus  rushes  to  meet  Paris.  A 
Roman  noble,  eager  for  vengeance,  spurs  his  horse 
towards  Sextus.  Both  the  guilty  princes  are  instantly 
terror-stricken  : 


Tor  &  cos  ovv  tvorjtisv  *A\£$avdpoS 

(pccvevra.)  nar  eicXrfyr}  cpikov  rjrop  • 


"  Tarquinius,"  says  I4vy,  "retro  in  agmen  suorum 
infenso  cessit  hosti."  If  this  be  a  fortuitous  coinci- 
dence, it  is  one  of  the  most  extraordinary  in  literature. 

In  the  following  poem,  therefore,  images  and  inci- 
dents have  been  borrowed,  not  merely  without  scruple, 
but  on  principle,  from  the  incomparable  battle-pieces 
of  Homer. 

The  popular  belief  at  Rome,  from  an  early  period, 
seems  to  have  been  that  the  event  of  the  great  day  of 
Regillus  was  decided  by  supernatural  agency.  Castor 
and  Pollux,  it  was  said,  had  fought,  armed  and 
mounted,  at  the  head  of  the  legions  of  the  common- 
wealth, and  had  afterwards  carried  the  news  of  the 
victory  with  incredible  speed  to  the  city.  The  well  in 
the  Forum  at  which  they  had  alighted  was  pointed 
out.  Near  the  well  rose  their  ancient  temple.  A  great 
festival  was  kept  to  their  honor  on  the  ides  of  Quintilis, 
supposed  to  be  the  anniversary  of  the  battle  ;  and  on 
that  day  sumptuous  sacrifices  were  offered  to  them  at 
the  public  charge.  One  spot  on  the  margin  of  Lake 
Regillus  was  regarded  during  many  ages  with  super- 
stitious awe.  A  mark,  resembling  in  shape  a  horse's 
hoof,  was  discernible  in  the  volcanic  rock  ;  and  this 


The  Battle  of  the  Lake  Regillus     65 

mark  was  believed  to  have  been  made  by  one  of  the 
celestial  chargers. 

How  the  legend  originated  cannot  now  be  ascer- 
tained ;  but  we  may  easily  imagine  several  ways  in 
which  it  might  have  originated  ;  nor  is  it  at  all  neces- 
sary to  suppose,  with  Julius  Frontinus,  that  two  young 
men  were  dressed  up  by  the  Dictator  to  personate  the 
sons  of  Leda.  It  is  probable  that  L,ivy  is  correct  when 
he  says  that  the  Roman  general,  in  the  hour  of  peril, 
vowed  a  temple  to  Castor.  If  so,  nothing  could  be 
more  natural  than  that  the  multitude  should  ascribe 
the  victory  to  the  favor  of  the  Twin  Gods.  When 
such  was  the  prevailing  sentiment,  any  man  who  chose 
to  declare  that,  in  the  midst  of  the  confusion  and 
slaughter,  he  had  seen  two  godlike  forms  on  white 
horses  scattering  the  Latines  would  find  ready  cred- 
ence. We  know,  indeed,  that,  in  modern  times,  a 
very  similar  story  actually  found  credence  among  a 
people  much  more  civilized  than  the  Romans  of  the 
fifth  century  before  Christ.  A  chaplain  of  Cortes, 
writing  about  thirty  years  after  the  conquest  of  Mexico, 
in  an  age  of  printing-presses,  libraries,  universities, 
scholars,  logicians,  jurists,  and  statesmen,  had  the  face 
to  assert  that,  in  one  engagement  against  the  Indians, 
Saint  James  had  appeared  on  a  gray  horse  at  the  head 
of  the  Castilian  adventurers.  Many  of  those  adven- 
turers were  living  when  this  lie  was  printed.  One  of 
them,  honest  Bernal  Diaz,  wrote  an  account  of  the  ex- 
pedition. He  had  the  evidence  of  his  own  senses 
against  the  legend  ;  but  he  seems  to  have  distrusted 
even  the  evidence  of  his  own  senses.  He  says  that  he 
was  in  the  battle,  and  that  he  saw  a  gray  horse  with  a 
man  on  his  back,  but  that  the  man  was,  to  his  think- 


66  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome 

ing,  Francisco  de  Morla,  and  not  the  ever-blessed 
apostle  Saint  James.  "  Nevertheless, "  Bernal  adds, 
4 '  it  may  be  that  the  person  on  the  gray  horse  was  the 
glorious  apostle  Saint  James,  and  that  I,  sinner  that  I 
am,  was  unworthy  to  see  him."  The  Romans  of  the 
age  of  Cincinnatus  were  probably  quite  as  credulous  as 
the  Spanish  subjects  of  Charles  the  Fifth.  It  is  there- 
fore conceivable  that  the  appearance  of  Castor  and 
Pollux  may  have  become  an  article  of  faith  before  the 
generation  which  had  fought  at  Regillus  had  passed 
away.  Nor  could  anything  be  more  natural  than  that 
the  poets  of  the  next  age  should  embellish  this  story, 
and  make  the  celestial  horsemen  bear  the  tidings  of 
victory  to  Rome. 

Many  years  after  the  temple  of  the  Twin  Gods  had 
been  built  in  the  Forum,  an  important  addition  was 
made  to  the  ceremonial  by  which  the  State  annually 
testified  its  gratitude  for  their  protection.  Quintus 
Fabius  and  Publius  Decius  were  elected  Censors  at  a 
momentous  crisis.  It  had  become  absolutely  necessary 
that  the  classification  of  the  citizens  should  be  revised. 
On  that  classification  depended  the  distribution  of 
political  power.  Party-spirit  ran  high  ;  and  the  re- 
public seemed  to  be  in  danger  of  falling  under  the  do- 
minion either  of  a  narrow  oligarchy  or  of  an  ignorant 
and  headstrong  rabble.  Under  such  circumstances, 
the  most  illustrious  patrician  and  the  most  illustrious 
plebeian  of  the  age  were  intrusted  with  the  office  of 
arbitrating  between  the  angry  factions  ;  and  they  per- 
formed their  arduous  task  to  the  satisfaction  of  all 
honest  and  reasonable  men. 

One  of  their  reforms  was  a  remodelling  of  the  eques- 
trian order  ;  and,  having  effected  this  reform,  they  de- 


The  Battle  of  the  Lake  Regillus     67 

termined  to  give  to  their  work  a  sanction  derived  from 
religion.  In  the  chivalrous  societies  of  modern  times 
— societies  which  have  much  more  than  may  at  first 
sight  appear  in  common  with  the  equestrian  order  of 
Rome — it  has  been  usual  to  invoke  the  special  protec- 
tion of  some  saint,  and  to  observe  his  day  with  peculiar 
solemnity.  Thus  the  Companions  of  the  Garter  wear 
the  image  of  Saint  George  depending  from  their  collars, 
and  meet,  on  great  occasions,  in  Saint  George's  Chapel. 
Thus,  when  Louis  the  Fourteenth  instituted  a  new  order 
of  chivalry  for  the  rewarding  of  military  merit,  he  com- 
mended it  to  the  favor  of  his  own  glorified  ancestor  and 
patron,  and  decreed  that  all  the  members  of  the  fra- 
ternity should  meet  at  the  royal  palace  on  the  feast  of 
Saint  Louis,  should  attend  the  King  to  chapel,  should 
hear  mass,  and  should  subsequently  hold  their  great 
annual  assembly.  There  is  a  considerable  resemblance 
between  this  rule  of  the  Order  of  Saint  Louis  and  the 
rule  which  Fabius  and  Decius  made  respecting  the  Ro- 
man knights.  It  was  ordained  that  a  grand  muster 
and  inspection  of  the  equestrian  body  should  be  part  of 
the  ceremonial  performed,  on  the  anniversary  of  the 
battle  of  Regillus,  in  honor  of  Castor  and  Pollux,  the 
two  equestrian  gods.  All  the  knights,  clad  in  purple 
and  crowned  with  olive,  were  to  meet  at  a  temple  of 
Mars  in  the  suburbs.  Thence  they  were  to  ride  in 
state  to  the  Forum,  where  the  temple  of  the  Twins 
stood.  This  pageant  was,  during  several  centuries, 
considered  as  one  of  the  most  splendid  sights  of  Rome. 
In  the  time  of  Dionysius  the  cavalcade'  sometimes  con- 
sisted of  five  thousand  horsemen,  all  persons  of  fair  re- 
pute and  easy  fortune.1 

1  See  Livy,  ix.,  46.     Val.  Max,  ii.,  2.    Aurel.  Viet.,  De  Viri* 


68  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome 

There  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  censors  who  insti- 
tuted this  august  ceremony  acted  in  concert  with  the 
pontiffs,  to  whom,  by  the  constitution  of  Rome,  the 
superintendence  of  the  public  worship  belonged  ;  and 
it  is  probable  that  those  high  religious  functionaries 
were,  as  usual,  fortunate  enough  to  find  in  their  books 
or  traditions  some  warrant  for  the  innovation. 

The  following  poem  is  supposed  to  have  been  made 
for  this  great  occasion.  Songs,  we  know,  were  chanted 
at  the  religious  festivals  of  Rome  from  an  early  period, 
indeed  from  so  early  a  period  that  some  of  the  sacred 
verses  were  popularly  ascribed  to  Numa,  and  were 
utterly  unintelligible  in  the  age  of  Augustus.  In  the 
second  Punic  war,  a  great  feast  was  held  in  honor  of 
Juno,  and  a  song  was  sung  in  her  praise.  This  song 
was  extant  when  L,ivy  wrote  ;  and,  though  exceedingly 
rugged  and  uncouth,  seemed  to  him  not  wholly  desti- 
tute of  merit.1  A  song,  as  we  learn  from  Horace,*  was 
part  of  the  established  ritual  at  the  great  Secular  Jubi- 
lee. It  is  therefore  likely  that  the  censors  and  pontiffs, 
when  they  had  resolved  to  add  a  grand  procession  of 
knights  to  the  other  solemnities  annually  performed  on 
the  ides  of  Quintilis,  would  call  in  the  aid  of  a  poet. 
Such  a  poet  would  naturally  take  for  his  subject  the 
battle  of  Regillus,  the  appearance  of  the  Twin  Gods, 
and  the  institution  of  their  festival.  He  would  find 
abundant  materials  in  the  ballads  of  his  predecessors  ; 
and  he  would  make  free  use  of  the  scanty  stock  of  Greek 
learning  which  he  had  himself  acquired.  He  would  prob- 

Illustribus,  32.    Dionysius,  vi.,  13.    Plin.,  Hist.  Nat.,  xv.,  5. 
See  also  the  singularly  ingenious  chapter  in  Niebuhr's  posthum- 
ous volume,  Die  Censur  des  Q.  Fabius  und  P.  Decius. 
1  Livy,  xxvii.,  37.  *  Hor.,  Carmen  Seculare. 


The  Battle  of  the  Lake  Regillus     69 

ably  introduce  some  wise  and  holy  pontiff  enjoining  the 
magnificent  ceremonial  which,  after  a  long  interval,  had 
at  length  been  adopted.  If  the  poem  succeeded,  many 
persons  would  commit  it  to  memory.  Parts  of  it  would 
be  sung  to  the  pipe  at  banquets.  It  would  be  peculiarly 
interesting  to  the  great  Posthumian  House,  which 
numbered  among  its  many  images  that  of  the  Dictator 
Aulus,  the  hero  of  Regillus.  The  orator  who,  in  the 
following  generation,  pronounced  the  funeral  panegyric 
over  the  remains  of  Lucius  Posthumius  Magellus,  thrice 
Consul,  would  borrow  largely  from  the  lay  ;  and  thus 
some  passages,  much  disfigured,  would  probably  find 
their  way  into  the  chronicles  which  were  afterwards  in 
the  hands  of  Dionysius  and  L,ivy. 

Antiquaries  differ  widely  as  to  the  situation  of  the 
field  of  battle.  The  opinion  of  those  who  suppose  that 
the  armies  met  near  Cornufelle,  between  Frascati  and 
the  Monte  Porzio,  is  at  least  plausible,  and  has  been 
followed  in  the  poem. 

As  to  the  details  of  the  battle,  it  has  not  been  thought 
desirable  to  adhere  minutely  to  the  accounts  which  have 
come  down  to  us.  Those  accounts,  indeed,  differ  widely 
from  each  other,  and,  in  all  probability,  differ  as  widely 
from  the  ancient  poem  from  which  they  were  originally 
derived. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  point  out  the  obvious  imitations 
of  the  Iliad,  which  have  been  purposely  introduced. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  LAKE  REGILLUS 


A  LAY  SUNG  AT  THE   FEAST  OF  CASTOR  AND 

ON  THE  IDES   OF  QUINTILIS, 
IN  THE  YEAR  OF  THE  CITY  CCCCW 


HO,  trumpets,  sound  a  war-note  ! 
Ho,  lictors,  clear  the  way  ! 
The  knights  will  ride,  in  all  their  pride, 

Along  the  streets  to-day. 
To-day  the  doors  and  windows 

Are  hung  with  garlands  all, 
From  Castor  in  the  Forum 

To  Mars  without  the  wall. 
Each  knight  is  robed  in  purple, 

With  olive  each  is  crowned  ; 
A  gallant  war-horse  under  each 

Paws  haughtily  the  ground. 
While  flows  the  Yellow  River, 

While  stands  the  Sacred  Hill, 
The  proud  ides  of  Quintilis 

Shall  have  such  honor  still. 
Gay  are  the  Martian  kalends  ; 

December's  nones  are  gay  ; 
But  the  proud  ides,  when  the  squadron  rides, 

Shall  be  Rome's  whitest  day. 
70 


The  Battle  of  the  Lake  Regillus     71 
ii 

Unto  the  Great  Twin  Brethren 

We  keep  this  solemn  feast. 
Swift,  swift,  the  Great  Twin  Brethren 

Came  spurring  from  the  east. 
They  came  o'er  wild  Parthenius 

Tossing  in  waves  of  pine, 
O'er  Cirrha's  dome,  o'er  Adria's  foam, 

O'er  purple  Apennine, 
From  where  with  flutes  and  dances 

Their  ancient  mansion  rings, 
In  lordly  Lacedsemon, 

The  city  of  two  kings, 
To  where,  by  I,ake  Regillus, 

Under  the  Porcian  height, 
All  in  the  lands  of  Tusculum, 

Was  fought  the  glorious  fight. 

ni 

Now  on  the  place  of  slaughter 

Are  cots  and  sheepfolds  seen, 
And  rows  of  vines,  and  fields  of  wheat, 

And  apple-orchards  green  ; 
The  swine  crush  the  big  acorns 

That  fall  from  Corne's  oaks  ; 
Upon  the  turf  by  the  Fair  Fount 

The  reaper's  pottage  smokes. 
The  fisher  baits  his  angle  ; 

The  hunter  twangs  his  bow  ; 
lyittle  they  think  on  those  strong  limbs 

That  moulder  deep  below. 
Little  they  think  how  sternly 


72  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome 

That  day  the  trumpets  pealed  ; 
How  in  the  slippery  swamp  of  blood 

Warrior  and  war-horse  reeled  ; 
How  wolves  came  with  fierce  gallop, 

And  crows  on  eager  wings, 
To  tear  the  flesh  of  captains, 

And  peck  the  eyes  of  kings  ; 
How  thick  the  dead  lay  scattered 

Under  the  Porcian  height  ; 
How  through  the  gates  of  Tusculum 

Raved  the  wild  stream  of  flight ; 
And  how  the  Lake  Regillus 

Bubbled  with  crimson  foam, 
What  time  the  Thirty  Cities 

Came  forth  to  war  with  Rome. 

IV 

But,  Roman,  when  thou  standest 

Upon  that  holy  ground, 
Look  thou  with  heed  on  the  dark  rock 

That  girds  the  dark  lake  round. 
So  shalt  thou  see  a  hoof-mark 

Stamped  deep  into  the  flint : 
It  was  no  hoof  of  mortal  steed 

That  made  so  strange  a  dint ; 
There  to  the  Great  Twin  Brethren 

Vow  thou  thy  vows,  and  pray 
That  they,  in  tempest  and  in  fight, 

Will  keep  thy  head  alway. 

V 

Since  last  the  Great  Twin  Brethren 
Of  mortal  eyes  were  seen, 


i 
i 

H 


OJ    P        H 

CU  ^      H 


B  O 


The  Battle  of  the  Lake  Regillus     73 

Have  years  gone  by  a  hundred 

And  fourscore  and  thirteen. 
That  summer  a  Virginius 

Was  Consul  first  in  place  ; 
The  second  was  stout  Aulus, 

Of  the  Posthumian  race. 
The  Herald  of  the  Latines 

From  Gabii  came  in  state  ; 
The  Herald  of  the  Latines 

Passed  through  Rome's  Eastern  Gate ; 
The  Herald  of  the  Latines 

Did  in  our  Forum  stand  ; 
And  there  he  did  his  office, 

A  sceptre  in  his  hand. 

VI 

"  Hear,  Senators  and  people 

Of  the  good  town  of  Rome, 
The  Thirty  Cities  charge  you 

To  bring  the  Tarquins  home  : 
And  if  ye  still  be  stubborn, 

To  work  the  Tarquins  wrong, 
The  Thirty  Cities  warn  you, 

Look  that  your  walls  be  strong." 

VII 

Then  spake  the  Consul  Aulus — 

He  spake  a  bitter  jest — 
"  Once  the  jays  sent  a  message 

Unto  the  eagle's  nest : 
Now  yield  thou  up  thine  eyry 

Unto  the  carrion-kite, 


74  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome 

Or  come  forth  valiantly,  and  face 
The  jays  in  deadly  fight. — 

Forth  looked  in  wrath  the  eagle  ; 
And  carrion-kite  and  jay, 

Soon  as  they  saw  his  beak  and  claw, 
Fled  screaming  far  away." 

VIII 

The  Herald  of  the  Ratines 

Hath  hied  him  back  in  state  ; 
The  Fathers  of  the  City 

Are  met  in  high  debate. 
Then  spake  the  elder  Consul, 

An  ancient  man  and  wise  : 
"  Now  hearken,  Conscript  Fathers, 

To  that  which  I  advise. 
In  seasons  of  great  peril 

'T  is  good  that  one  bear  sway  ; 
Then  choose  we  a  Dictator, 

Whom  all  men  shall  obey. 
Camerium  knows  how  deeply 

The  sword  of  Aulus  bites, 
And  all  our  city  calls  him 

The  man  of  seventy  fights. 
Then  let  him  be  Dictator 

For  six  months,  and  no  more  ; 
And  have  a  Master  of  the  Knights, 

And  axes  twenty-four." 

IX 

So  Aulus  was  Dictator, 

The  man  of  seventy  fights  ; 


The  Battle  of  the  Lake  Regillus     75 

He  made  ^Bbutius  Klva 

His  Master  of  the  Knights. 
On  the  third  morn  thereafter, 

At  dawning  of  the  day, 
Did  Aulus  and  ^Ebutius 

Set  forth  with  their  array. 
Sempronius  Atratinus 

Was  left  in  charge  at  home, 
With  boys  and  with  gray-headed  men 

To  keep  the  walls  of  Rome. 
Hard  by  the  Lake  Regillus 

Our  camp  was  pitched  at  night ; 
Eastward  a  mile  the  Latines  lay, 

Under  the  Porcian  height. 
Far  over  hill  and  valley 

Their  mighty  host  was  spread  ; 
And  with  their  thousand  watch-fires 

The  midnight  sky  was  red. 


Up  rose  the  golden  morning 

Over  the  Porcian  height, 
The  proud  ides  of  Quintilis 

Marked  evermore  with  white. 
Not  without  secret  trouble 

Our  bravest  saw  the  foes  ; 
For  girt  by  threescore  thousand  spears, 

The. thirty  standards  rose. 
From  every  warlike  city 

That  boasts  the  Latian  name, 
Foredoomed  to  dogs  and  vultures, 

That  gallant  army  came  : 
From  Setia's  purple  vineyards, 


76  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome 

From  Norba's  ancient  wall, 
From  the  white  streets  of  Tusculum, 

The  proudest  town  of  all  ; 
From  where  the  Witch's  Fortress 

O'erhangs  the  dark-blue  seas  ; 
From  the  still  glassy  lake  that  sleeps 

Beneath  Aricia's  trees — 
Those  trees  in  whose  dim  shadow 

The  ghastly  priest  doth  reign, 
The  priest  who  slew  the  slayer, 

And  shall  himself  be  slain  ; 
From  the  drear  banks  of  Ufens, 

Where  flights  of  marsh-fowl  play, 
And  buffaloes  lie  wallowing 

Through  the  hot  summer's  day  ; 
From  the  gigantic  watch-towers, 

No  work  of  earthly  men, 
Whence  Cora's  sentinels  o'erlook 

The  never-ending  fen  ; 
From  the  Laurentian  jungle, 

The  wild  hog's  reedy  home  ; 
From  the  green  steeps  whence  Anio  leaps 

In  floods  of  snow-white  foam. 

XI 

Aricia,  Cora,  Norba, 

Velitrse,  with  the  might 
Of  Setia  and  of  Tusculum, 

Were  marshalled  on  the  right ; 
The  leader  was  Mamilius, 

Prince  of  the  I^atian  name  ; 
Upon  his  head  a  helmet 

Of  red  gold  shone  like  flame : 


The  Battle  of  the  Lake  Regillus     77 

High  on  a  gallant  charger 

Of  dark-gray  hue  he  rode  ; 
Over  his  gilded  armor 

A  vest  of  purple  flowed, 
Woven  in  the  land  of  sunrise 

By  Syria's  dark-browed  daughters, 
And  by  the  sails  of  Carthage  brought 

Far  o'er  the  southern  waters. 


XII 


Lavinium  and  L,aurentum 

Had  on  the  left  their  post, 
With  all  the  banners  of  the  marsh, 

And  banners  of  the  coast. 
Their  leader  was  false  Sextus, 

That  wrought  the  deed  of  shame  ; 
With  restless  pace  and  haggard  face 

To  his  last  field  he  came. 
Men  said  he  saw  strange  visions 

Which  none  besides  might  see  ; 
And  that  strange  sounds  were  in  his  ears 

Which  none  might  hear  but  he. 
A  woman  fair  and  stately, 

But  pale  as  are  the  dead, 
Oft  through  the  watches  of  the  night 

Sat  spinning  by  his  bed. 
And  as  she  plied  the  distaff, 

In  a  voice  sweet  and  low, 
She  sang  of  great  old  houses, 

And  fights  fought  long  ago. 
So  spun  she,  and  so  sang  she, 

Until  the  east  was  gray. 


78  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome 

Then  pointed  to  her  bleeding  breast, 
And  shrieked,  and  fled  away. 


XIII 

But  in  the  centre  thickest 

Were  ranged  the  shields  of  foes, 
And  from  the  centre  loudest 

The  cry  of  battle  rose. 
There  Tibur  marched,  and  Pedum, 

Beneath  proud  Tarquin's  rule, 
And  Ferentinum  of  the  rock, 

And  Gabii  of  the  pool. 
There  rode  the  Volscian  succors  ; 

There,  in  a  dark  stern  ring, 
The  Roman  exiles  gathered  close 

Around  the  ancient  King. 
Though  white  as  Mount  Soracte 

When  winter  nights  are  long, 
His  beard  flowed  down  o'er  mail  and  belt, 

His  heart  and  hand  were  strong  ; 
Under  his  hoary  eyebrows 

Still  flashed  forth  quenchless  rage  ; 
And  if  the  lance  shook  in  his  gripe, 

'T  was  more  with  hate  than  age. 
Close  at  his  side  was  Titus 

On  an  Apulian  steed — 
Titus,  the  youngest  Tarquin, 

Too  good  for  such  a  breed. 

XIV 

Now  on  each  side  the  leaders 
Gave  signal  for  the  charge ; 


The  Battle  of  the  Lake  Regillus     79 

And  on  each  side  the  footmen 

Strode  on  with  lance  and  targe  ; 
And  on  each  side  the  horsemen 

Struck  their  spurs  deep  in  gore, 
And  front  to  front  the  armies 

Met  with  a  mighty  roar  ; 
And  under  that  great  battle 

The  earth  with  blood  was  red  ; 
And,  like  the  Pomptine  fog  at  morn, 

The  dust  hung  overhead  ; 
And  louder  still  and  louder 

Rose  from  the  darkened  field 
The  braying  of  the  war-horns, 

The  clang  of  sword  and  shield, 
The  rush  of  squadrons  sweeping 

Like  whirlwinds  o'er  the  plain, 
The  shouting  of  the  slayers, 

And  screeching  of  the  slain. 

xv 

False  Sextus  rode  out  foremost, 

His  look  was  high  and  bold  ; 
His  corselet  was  of  bison's  hide, 

Plated  with  steel  and  gold. 
As  glares  the  famished  eagle 

From  the  Digentian  rock 
On  a  choice  lamb  that  bounds  alone 

Before  Bandusia's  flock, 
Herminius  glared  on  Sextus, 

And  came  with  eagle  speed, 
Herminius  on  black  Auster, 

Brave  champion  on  brave  steed  ; 
In  his  right  hand  the  broadsword 


8o  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome 

That  kept  the  bridge  so  well, 
And  on  his  helm  the  crown  he  won 

When  proud  Fidenae  fell. 
Woe  to  the  maid  whose  lover 

Shall  cross  his  path  to-day  ! 
False  Sextus  saw  and  trembled, 

And  turned  and  fled  away. 
As  turns,  as  flies,  the  woodman 

In  the  Calabrian  brake, 
When  through  the  reeds  gleams  the  round  eye 

Of  that  fell  speckled  snake, 
So  turned,  so  fled,  false  Sextus, 

And  hid  him  in  the  rear, 
Behind  the  dark  I,avinian  ranks, 

Bristling  with  crest  and  spear. 

XVI 

But  far  to  north  ^Sbutius, 

The  Master  of  the  Knights, 
Gave  Tubero  of  Norba 

To  feed  the  Porcian  kites. 
Next  under  those  red  horse-hoofs 

Flaccus  of  Setia  lay  ; 
Better  had  he  been  pruning 

Among  his  elms  that  day. 
Mamilius  saw  the  slaughter, 

And  tossed  his  golden  crest, 
And  towards  the  Master  of  the  Knights 

Through  the  thick  battle  pressed, 
^butius  smote  Mamilius 

So  fiercely  on  the  shield 
That  the  great  lord  of  Tusculum 

Well-nigh  rolled  on  the  field. 


The  Battle  of  the  Lake  Regillus     81 


Mamilius  smote 

With  a  good  aim  and  true, 
Just  where  the  neck  and  shoulder  join, 

And  pierced  him  through  and  through  ; 
And  brave  -^butius  Elva 

Fell  swooning  to  the  ground  ; 
But  a  thick  wall  of  bucklers 

Encompassed  him  around. 
His  clients  from  the  battle 

Bare  him  some  little  space, 
And  filled  a  helm  from  the  dark  lake, 

And  bathed  his  brow  and  face  ; 
And  when  at  last  he  opened 

His  swimming  eyes  to  light, 
Men  say  the  earliest  words  he  spake 

Was,  "  Friends,  how  goes  the  fight  ?  " 

XVII 

But  meanwhile  in  the  centre 

Great  deeds  of  arms  were  wrought  ; 
There  Aulus  the  Dictator 

And  there  Valerius  fought. 
Aulus  with  his  good  broadsword 

A  bloody  passage  cleared 
To  where,  amidst  the  thickest  foes, 

He  saw  the  long  white  beard. 
Flat  lighted  that  good  broadsword 

Upon  proud  Tarquin's  head. 
He  dropped  the  lance  ;  he  dropped  the  reins  ; 

He  fell  as  fall  the  dead. 
Down  Aulus  springs  to  slay  him, 

With  eyes  like  coals  of  fire  ; 
But  faster  Titus  hath  sprung  down, 


82  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome 

And  hath  bestrode  his  sire. 
Latian  captains,  Roman  knights, 

Fast  down  to  earth  they  spring, 
And  hand  to  hand  they  fight  on  foot 

Around  the  ancient  king. 
First  Titus  gave  tall  Caeso 

A  death  wound  in  the  face  ; 
Tall  Caeso  was  the  bravest  man 

Of  the  brave  Fabian  race  ; 
Aulus  slew  Rex  of  Gabii, 

The  priest  of  Juno's  shrine  ; 
Valerius  smote  down  Julius, 

Of  Rome's  great  Julian  line  ; 
Julius,  who  left  his  mansion, 

High  on  the  Velian  hill, 
And  through  all  turns  of  weal  and  woe 

Followed  proud  Tarquin  still. 
Now  right  across  proud  Tarquin 

A  corpse  was  Julius  laid  ; 
And  Titus  groaned  with  rage  and  grief, 

And  at  Valerius  made. 
Valerius  struck  at  Titus, 

And  lopped  off  half  his  crest ; 
But  Titus'Stabbed  Valerius 

A  span  deep  in  the  breast. 
Like  a  mast  snapped  by  the  tempest, 

Valerius  reeled  and  fell. 
Ah  !  woe  is  me  for  the  good  house 

That  loves  the  people  well  ! 
Then  shouted  loud  the  L,atines  ; 

And  with  one  rush  they  bore 
The  struggling  Romans  backward 

Three  lances'  length  and  more  ; 


The  Battle  of  the  Lake  Regillus     83 

And  up  they  took  proud  Tarquin, 

And  laid  him  on  a  shield, 
And  four  strong  yeomen  bare  him, 

Still  senseless,  from  the  field. 

XVIII 

But  fiercer  grew  the  fighting 

Around  Valerius  dead ; 
For  Titus  dragged  him  by  the  foot, 

And  Aulus  by  the  head. 
"  On,  Ratines,  on  !  "  quoth  Titus, 

"  See  how  the  rebels  fly  !  " 
"  Romans,  stand  firm  !  "  quoth  Aulus, 

' '  And  win  this  fight  or  die  ! 
They  must  not  give  Valerius 

To  raven  and  to  kite  ; 
For  aye  Valerius  loathed  the  wrong, 

And  aye  upheld  the  right ; 
And  for  your  wives  and  babies 

In  the  front  rank  he  fell. 
Now  play  the  men  for  the  good  house 

That  loves  the  people  well !  " 

XIX 

Then  tenfold  round  the  body 

The  roar  of  battle  rose, 
Like  the  roar  of  a  burning  forest, 

When  a  strong  north  wind  blows. 
Now  backward,  and  now  forward, 

Rocked  furiously  the  fray, 
Till  none  could  see  Valerius, 

And  none  wist  where  he  lay. 
For  shivered  arms  and  ensigns 


84  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome 

Were  heaped  there  in  a  mound, 
And  corpses  stiff,  and  dying  men 

That  writhed  and  gnawed  the  ground  ; 
And  wounded  horses  kicking 

And  snorting  purple  foam  ; 
Right  well  did  such  a  couch  befit 

A  Consular  of  Rome. 


xx 


But  north  looked  the  Dictator  ; 

North  looked  he  long  and  hard, 
And  spake  to  Caius  Cossus, 

The  Captain  of  his  Guard  : 
"  Caius,  of  all  the  Romans 

Thou  hast  the  keenest  sight, 
Say,  what  through  yonder  storm  of  dust 

Comes  from  the  L,atian  right  ?  " 

XXI 

Then  answered  Caius  Cossus  : 

"  I  see  an  evil  sight  ; 
The  banner  of  proud  Tusculum 

Comes  from  the  I/atian  right ; 
I  see  the  plumed  horsemen  ; 

And  far  before  the  rest 
I  see  the  dark-gray  charger, 

I  see  the  purple  vest ; 
I  see  the  golden  helmet 

That  shines  far  off  like  flame  ; 
So  ever  rides  Mamilius, 

Prince  of  the  Latian  name." 


The  Battle  of  the  Lake  Regillus     85 

XXII 

"  Now  hearken,  Caius  Cossus  : 

Spring  on  thy  horse's  back  ; 
Ride  as  the  wolves  of  Apennine 

Were  all  upon  thy  track  ; 
Haste  to  our  southward  battle  ; 

And  never  draw  thy  rein 
Until  thou  find  Herminius, 

And  bid  him  come  amain. " 

xxni 

So  Aulus  spake,  and  turned  him 

Again  to  that  fierce  strife  ; 
And  Caius  Cossus  mounted, 

And  rode  for  death  and  life. 
Loud  clanged  beneath  his  horse-hoofs 

The  helmets  of  the  dead, 
And  many  a  curdling  pool  of  blood 

Splashed  him  from  heel  to  head. 
So  came  he  far  to  southward, 

Where  fought  the  Roman  host, 
Against  the  banners  of  the  marsh 

And  banners  of  the  coast. 
Like  corn  before  the  sickle 

The  stout  Lavinians  fell, 
Beneath  the  edge  of  the  true  sword 

That  kept  the  bridge  so  well. 

XXIV 

"  Herminius  !  Aulus  greets  thee  ; 

He  bids  thee  come  with  speed, 
To  help  our  central  battle  ; 

For  sore  is  there  our  need. 


86  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome 

There  wars  the  youngest  Tarquin, 

And  there  the  Crest  of  Flame, 
The  Tusculan  Mamilius, 

Prince  of  the  Latian  name. 
Valerius  hath  fallen  fighting 

In  front  of  our  array  ; 
And  Aulus  of  the  seventy  fields 

Alone  upholds  the  day." 

XXV 

Herminius  beat  his  bosom, 

But  never  a  word  he  spake. 
He  clapped  his  hand  on  Auster's  maner 

He  gave  the  reins  a  shake  ; 
Away,  away,  went  Auster, 

Like  an  arrow  from  the  bow  ; 
Black  Auster  was  the  fleetest  steed 

From  Aufidus  to  Po. 

xxvi 

Right  glad  were  all  the  Romans 

Who,  in  that  hour  of  dread, 
Against  great  odds  bare  up  the  war 

Around  Valerius  dead, 
When  from  the  south  the  cheering 

Rose  with  a  mighty  swell : 
"  Herminius  comes,  Herminius, 

Who  kept  the  bridge  so  well !  " 

XXVII 

Mamilius  spied  Herminius, 
And  dashed  across  the  way. 


The  Battle  of  the  Lake  Regillus     87 

"  Herininius  !  I  have  sought  thee 

Through  many  a  bloody  day. 
One  of  us  two,  Herminius, 

Shall  never  more  go  home. 
I  will  lay  on  for  Tusculum, 

And  lay  thou  on  for  Rome  ! " 

XXVIII 

All  round  them  paused  the  battle, 

While  met  in  mortal  fray 
The  Roman  and  the  Tusculan, 

The  horses  black  and  gray. 
Herminius  smote  Mamilius 

Through  breastplate  and  through  breast 
And  fast  flowed  out  the  purple  blood 

Over  the  purple  vest. 
Mamilius  smote  Herminius 

Through  head-piece  and  through  head  ; 
And  side  by  side  those  chiefs  of  pride 

Together  fell  down  dead. 
Down  fell  they  dead  together 

In  a  great  lake  of  gore  ; 
And  still  stood  all  who  saw  them  fall 

While  men  might  count  a  score. 

XXIX 

Fast,  fast,  with  heels  wild  spurning, 

The  dark-gray  charger  fled  ; 
He  burst  through  ranks  of  fighting-men  ; 

He  sprang  o'er  heaps  of  dead. 
His  bridle  far  outstreaming, 

His  flanks  all  blood  and  foam, 


88  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome 

He  sought  the  southern  mountains, 

The  mountains  of  his  home. 
The  pass  was  steep  and  rugged, 

The  wolves  they  howled  and  whined  ; 
But  he  ran  like  a  whirlwind  up  the  pass, 

And  he  left  the  wolves  behind. 
Through  many  a  startled  hamlet 

Thundered  his  flying  feet  ; 
He  rushed  through  the  gate  of  Tusculum, 

He  rushed  up  the  long  white  street ; 
He  rushed  by  tower  and  temple, 

And  paused  not  from  his  race, 
Till  he  stood  before  his  master's  door 

In  the  stately  market-place. 
And  straightway  round  him  gathered 

A  pale  and  trembling  crowd  ; 
And,  when  they  knew  him,  cries  of  rage 

Brake  forth,  and  wailing  loud  ; 
And  women  rent  their  tresses 

For  their  great  prince's  fall ; 
And  old  men  girt  on  their  old  swords, 

And  went  to  man  the  wall. 

XXX 

But,  like  a  graven  image, 

Black  Auster  kept  his  place, 
And  ever  wistfully  he  looked 

Into  his  master's  face. 
The  raven  mane  that  daily, 

With  pats  and  fond  caresses, 
The  young  Herminia  washed  and  combed, 

And  twined  in  even  tresses, 
And  decked  with  colored  ribbons 


The  Battle  of  the  Lake  Regillus     89 

From  her  own  gay  attire, 
Hung  sadly  o'er  her  father's  corpse 

In  carnage  and  in  mire. 
Forth  with  a  shout  sprang  Titus, 

And  seized  black  Auster's  rein. 
Then  Aulus  sware  a  fearful  oath, 

And  ran  at  him  amain. 
"  The  furies  of  thy  brother 

With  me  and  mine  abide, 
If  one  of  your  accursed  house 

Upon  black  Auster  ride  !  " 
As  on  an  Alpine  watch-tower 

From  heaven  comes  down  the  flame, 
Full  on  the  neck  of  Titus 

The  blade  of  Aulus  came  ; 
And  out  the  red  blood  spouted, 

In  a  wide  arch  and  tall, 
As  spouts  a  fountain  in  the  court 

Of  some  rich  Capuan's  hall. 
The  knees  of  all  the  I,atines 

Were  loosened  with  dismay, 
When  dead,  on  dead  Herminius, 

The  bravest  Tarquin  lay. 

XXXI 

And  Aulus  the  Dictator 

Stroked  Auster's  raven  mane, 
With  heed  he  looked  unto  the  girths, 

With  heed  unto  the  rein. 
"  Now  bear  me  well,  black  Auster, 

Into  yon  thick  array  ; 
And  thou  and  I  will  have  revenge 

For  thy  good  lord  this  day." 


90  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome 

XXXII 

So  spake  he  ;  and  was  buckling 

Tighter  black  Auster's  band, 
When  he  was  aware  of  a  princely  pair 

That  rode  at  his  right  hand. 
So  like  they  were,  no  mortal 

Might  one  from  other  know  ; 
White  as  snow  their  armor  was  ; 

Their  steeds  were  white  as  snow. 
Never  on  earthly  anvil 

Did  such  rare  armor  gleam  ; 
And  never  did  such  gallant  steeds 

Drink  of  an  earthly  stream. 

XXXIII 

And  all  who  saw  them  trembled, 

And  pale  grew  every  cheek  ; 
And  Aulus  the  Dictator 

Scarce  gathered  voice  to  speak. 
"  Say  by  what  name  men  call  you  ? 

What  city  is  your  home  ? 
And  wherefore  ride  ye  in  such  guise 

Before  the  ranks  of  Rome  ?  " 

xxxiv 

11  By  many  names  men  call  us  ; 

In  many  lands  we  dwell : 
Well  Samothracia  knows  us  ; 

Cyrene  knows  us  well. 
Our  house  in  gay  Tarentum 

Is  hung  each  morn  with  flowers  ; 
High  o'er  the  masts  of  Syracuse 

Our  marble  portal  towers  ; 


The  Battle  of  the  Lake  Regillus     91 

But  by  the  proud  Eurotas 

Is  our  dear  native  home  ; 
And  for  the  right  we  come  to  fight 

Before  the  ranks  of  Rome. ' ' 

XXXV 

So  answered  those  strange  horsemen, 

And  each  couched  low  his  spear  ; 
And  forthwith  all  the  ranks  of  Rome 

Were  bold  and  of  good  cheer  ; 
And  on  the  thirty  armies 

Came  wonder  and  affright, 
And  Ardea  wavered  on  the  left, 

And  Cora  on  the  right. 
"  Rome  to  the  charge  !  "  cried  Aulus ; 

11  The  foe  begins  to  yield  ! 
Charge  for  the  hearth  of  Vesta  ! 

Charge  for  the  Golden  Shield  ! 
Let  no  man  stop  to  plunder, 

But  slay,  and  slay,  and  slay  ; 
The  gods,  who  live  forever, 

Are  on  our  side  to-day.'* 

xxxvi 

Then  the  fierce  trumpet-flourish 

From  earth  to  heaven  arose, 
The  kites  know  well  the  long  stern  swell 

That  bids  the  Romans  close. 
Then  the  good  sword  of  Aulus 

Was  lifted  up  to  slay  ; 
Then,  like  a  crag  down  Apennine, 

Rushed  Auster  through  the  fray. 
But  under  those  strange  horsemen 


92  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome 

Still  thicker  lay  the  slain  ; 
And  after  those  strange  horses 

Black  Auster  toiled  in  vain. 
Behind  them  Rome's  long  battle 

Came  rolling  on  the  foe, 
Ensigns  dancing  wild  above, 

Blades  all  in  line  below. 
So  comes  the  Po  in  flood-time 

Upon  the  Celtic  plain  ; 
So  comes  the  squall,  blacker  than  night, 

Upon  the  Adrian  main. 
Now,  by  our  sire  Quirinus, 

It  was  a  goodly  sight 
To  see  the  thirty  standards 

Swept  down  the  tide  of  flight. 
So  flies  the  spray  of  Adria 

When  the  black  squall  doth  blow  ; 
So  corn-sheaves  in  the  flood-time 

Spin  down  the  whirling  Po. 
False  Sextus  to  the  mountains 

Turned  first  his  horse's  head  ; 
And  fast  fled  Ferentinum, 

And  fast  Lanuvium  fled. 
The  horsemen  of  Nomentum 

Spurred  hard  out  of  the  fray  ; 
The  footmen  of  Velitrae 

Threw  shield  and  spear  away. 
And  underfoot  was  trampled, 

Amidst  the  mud  and  gore, 
The  banner  of  proud  Tusculum, 

That  never  stooped  before  ; 
And  down  went  Flavius  Faustus, 

Who  led  his  stately  ranks 


The  Battle  of  the  Lake  Regillus     93 

From  where  the  apple  blossoms  wave 

On  Anio's  echoing  banks  ; 
And  Tullus  of  Arpinum, 

Chief  of  the  Volscian  aids, 
And  Metius  with  the  long  fair  curls, 

The  love  of  Anxur's  maids  ; 
And  the  white  head  of  Vulso, 

The  great  Arician  seer  ; 
And  Nepos  of  L,aurentum, 

The  hunter  of  the  deer  ; 
And  in  the  back  false  Sextus 

Felt  the  good  Roman  steel, 
And  wriggling  in  the  dust  he  died, 

Like  a  worm  beneath  the  wheel. 
And  fliers  and  pursuers 

Were  mingled  in  a  mass  ; 
And  far  away  the  battle 

Went  roaring  through  the  pass. 

XXXVII 

Sempronius  Atratinus 

Sat  in  the  Eastern  Gate, 
Beside  him  were  three  Fathers, 

Each  in  his  chair  of  state — 
Fabius,  whose  nine  stout  grandsons 

That  day  were  in  the  field, 
And  Manlius,  eldest  of  the  Twelve 

Who  keep  the  Golden  Shield  ; 
And  Sergius,  the  High  Pontiff, 

For  wisdom  far  renowned  : 
In  all  Etruria's  colleges 

Was  no  such  Pontiff  found. 


94  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome 

And  all  around  the  portal, 

And  high  above  the  wall, 
Stood  a  great  throng  of  people, 

But  sad  and  silent  all ; 
Young  lads  and  stooping  elders 

That  might  not  bear  the  mail, 
Matrons  with  lips  that  quivered, 

And  maids  with  faces  pale. 
Since  the  first  gleam  of  daylight, 

Sempronius  had  not  ceased 
To  listen  for  the  rushing 

Of  horse-hoofs  from  the  east. 
The  mist  of  eve  was  rising, 

The  sun  was  hastening  down, 
When  he  was  aware  of  a  princely  pair 

Fast  pricking  towards  the  town. 
So  like  they  were,  man  never 

Saw  twins  so  like  before  ; 
Red  with  gore  their  armor  was, 

Their  steeds  were  red  with  gore. 

XXXVIII 

"  Hail  to  the  great  Asylum  ! 

Hail  to  the  hill-tops  seven  ! 
Hail  to  the  fire  that  burns  for  aye, 

And  the  shield  that  fell  from  heaven  ! 
This  day,  by  I^ake  Regillus, 

Under  the  Porcian  height, 
All  in  the  lands  of  Tusculum 

Was  fought  a  glorious  fight. 
To-morrow  your  Dictator 

Shall  bring  in  triumph  home 


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The  Battle  of  the  Lake  Regillus     95 

The  spoils  of  thirty  cities 
To  deck  the  shrines  of  Rome  !  " 


XXXIX 

Then  burst  from  that  great  concourse 

A  shout  that  shook  the  towers, 
And  some  ran  north,  and  some  ran  south, 

Crying,  "  The  day  is  ours  !  " 
But  on  rode  these  strange  horsemen, 

With  slow  and  lordly  pace  ; 
And  none  who  saw  their  bearing 

Durst  ask  their  name  or  race. 
On  rode  they  to  the  Forum, 

While  laurel  boughs  and  flowers, 
From  house-tops  and  from  windows, 

Fell  on  their  crests  in  showers. 
When  they  drew  nigh  to  Vesta, 

They  vaulted  down  amain, 
And  washed  their  horses  in  the  well 

That  springs  by  Vesta's  fane. 
And  straight  again  they  mounted, 

And  rode  to  Vesta's  door  ; 
Then,  like  a  blast,  away  they  passed, 

And  no  man  saw  them  more. 

XL 

And  all  the  people  trembled, 

And  pale  grew  every  cheek  ; 
And  Sergius  the  High  Pontiff 

Alone  found  voice  to  speak  : 
"  The  gods  who  live  forever 

Have  fought  for  Rome  to-day  ! 


96  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome 

These  be  the  Great  Twin  Brethren 

To  whom  the  Dorians  pray. 
Back  comes  the  Chief  in  triumph, 

Who,  in  the  hour  of  fight, 
Hath  seen  the  Great  Twin  Brethren 

In  harness  on  his  right. 
Safe  comes  the  ship  to  haven, 

Through  billows  and  through  gales, 
If  once  the  Great  Twin  Brethren 

Sit  shining  on  the  sails. 
Wherefore  they  washed  their  horses 

In  Vesta's  holy  well, 
Wherefore  they  rode  to  Vesta's  door, 

I  know,  but  may  not  tell. 
Here,  hard  by  Vesta's  temple, 

Build  we  a  stately  dome 
Unto  the  Great  Twin  Brethren 

Who  fought  so  well  for  Rome. 
And  when  the  months  returning 

Bring  back  this  day  of  fight, 
The  proud  ides  of  Quintilis, 

Marked  evermore  with  white, 
Unto  the  Great  Twin  Brethren 

Let  all  the  people  throng, 
With  chaplets  and  with  offerings, 

With  music  and  with  song  ; 
And  let  the  doors  and  windows 

Be  hung  with  garlands  all, 
And  let  the  knights  be  summoned 

To  Mars  without  the  wall ; 
Thence  let  them  ride  in  purple 

With  joyous  trumpet-sound, 
Each  mounted  on  his  war-horse, 


The  Battle  of  the  Lake  Regillus     97 

And  each  with  olive  crowned  ; 
And  pass  in  solemn  order 

Before  the  sacred  dome, 
Where  dwell  the  Great  Twin  Brethren 

Who  fought  so  well  for  Rome." 


VIRGINIA 


99 


VIRGINIA 

A  COLLECTION  consisting  exclusively  of  war- 
songs  would  give  an  imperfect,  or  rather  an 
erroneous,  notion  of  the  spirit  of  the  old  Latin  ballads. 
The  patricians,  during  more  than  a  century  after  the 
expulsion  of  the  kings,  held  all  the  high  military  com- 
mands. A  plebeian,  even  though,  like  Lucius  Siccius, 
he  were  distinguished  by  his  valor  and  knowledge  of 
war,  could  serve  only  in  subordinate  posts.  A  minstrel, 
therefore,  who  wished  to  celebrate  the  early  triumphs 
of  his  country  could  hardly  take  any  but  patricians  for 
his  heroes.  The  warriors  who  are  mentioned  in  the 
two  preceding  lays — Horatius,  Lartius,  Herminius, 
Aulus  Posthumius,  ^Ebutius  Klva,  Sempronius  Atra- 
tinus,  Valerius  Poplicola — were  all  members  of  the 
dominant  order;  and  a  poet  who  was  singing  their 
praises,  whatever  his  own  political  opinions  might  be, 
would  naturally  abstain  from  insulting  the  class  to 
which  they  belonged,  and  from  reflecting  on  the  system 
which  had  placed  such  men  at  the  head  of  the  legions 
of  the  commonwealth. 

But  there  was  a  class  of  compositions  in  which  the 
great  families  were  by  no  means  so  courteously  treated. 
No  parts  of  early  Roman  history  are  richer  with  poeti- 


101 


102  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome 

cal  coloring  than  those  which  relate  to  the  long  contest 
between  the  privileged  houses  and  the  commonalty. 
The  population  of  Rome  was,  from  a  very  early  period, 
divided  into  hereditary  castes,  which,  indeed,  readily 
united  to  repel  foreign  enemies,  but  which  regarded 
each  other,  during  many  years,  with  bitter  animosity. 
Between  those  castes  there  was  a  barrier  hardly  less 
strong  than  that  which,  at  Venice,  parted  the  members 
of  the  Great  Council  from  their  countrymen.  In  some 
respects,  indeed,  the  line  which  separated  an  Icilius  or 
a  Duilius  from  a  Posthumius  or  a  Fabius  was  even 
more  deeply  marked  than  that  which  separated  the 
rower  of  a  gondola  from  a  Contarini  or  a  Morosini.  At 
Venice  the  distinction  was  merely  civil.  At  Rome  it 
was  both  civil  and  religious.  Among  the  grievances 
under  which  the  plebeians  suffered,  three  were  felt  as 
peculiarly  severe.  They  were  excluded  from  the  high- 
est magistracies  ;  they  were  excluded  from  all  share  in 
the  public  lands ;  and  they  were  ground  down  to  the 
dust  by  partial  and  barbarous  legislation  touching  pe- 
cuniary contracts.  The  ruling  class  in  Rome  was  a 
moneyed  class  ;  and  it  made  and  administered  the  laws 
with  a  view  solely  to  its  own  interest.  Thus  the  rela- 
tion between  lender  and  borrower  was  mixed  up  with 
the  relation  between  sovereign  and  subject.  The  great 
men  held  a  large  portion  of  the  community  in  depend- 
ence by  means  of  advances  at  enormous  usury.  The 
law  of  debt,  framed  by  creditors,  and  for  the  protection 
of  creditors,  was  the  most  horrible  that  has  ever  been 
known  among  men.  The  liberty  and  even  the  life  of 
the  insolvent  were  at  the  mercy  of  the  patrician  money- 
lenders. Children  often  became  slaves  in  consequence 
of  the  misfortunes  of  their  parents.  The  debtor  was 


Virginia  103 

imprisoned,  not  in  a  public  jail  under  the  care  of  im- 
partial public  functionaries,  but  in  a  private  workhouse 
belonging  to  the  creditor.  Frightful  stories  were  told 
respecting  these  dungeons.  It  was  said  that  torture 
and  brutal  violation  were  common  ;  that  tight  stocks, 
heavy  chains,  scanty  measures  of  food,  were  used  to 
punish  wretches  guilty  of  nothing  but  poverty ;  and  that 
brave  soldiers  whose  breasts  were  covered  with  honor- 
able scars  were  often  marked  still  more  deeply  on  the 
back  by  the  scourges  of  high-born  usurers. 

The  plebeians  were,  however,  not  wholly  without 
constitutional  rights.  From  an  early  period  they  had 
been  admitted  to  some  share  of  political  power.  They 
were  enrolled  each  in  his  century,  and  were  allowed  a 
share,  considerable,  though  not  proportioned  to  their 
numerical  strength,  in  the  disposal  of  those  high  digni- 
ties from  which  they  were  themselves  excluded.  Thus 
their  position  bore  some  resemblance  to  that  of  the 
Irish  Catholics  during  the  interval  between  the  year 
1792  and  the  year  1829.  The  plebeians  had  also  the 
privilege  of  annually  appointing  officers  named  tribunes, 
who  had  no  active  share  in  the  government  of  the  com- 
monwealth, but  who,  by  degrees,  acquired  a  power 
formidable  even  to  the  ablest  and  most  resolute  consuls 
and  dictators.  The  person  of  the  tribune  was  inviola- 
ble ;  and,  though  he  could  directly  effect  little,  he  could 
obstruct  everything. 

During  more  than  a  century  after  the  institution  of 
the  tribuneship,  the  commons  struggled  manfully  for 
the  removal  of  the  grievances  under  which  they  la- 
bored ;  and,  in  spite  of  many  checks  and  reverses,  suc- 
ceeded in  wringing  concession  after  concession  from  the 
stubborn  aristocracy.  At  length,  in  the  year  of  the 


104  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome 

city  378,  both  parties*mustered  their  whole  strength  for 
their  last  and  most  desperate  conflict.  The  popular 
and  active  tribune  Caius  Licinius  proposed  the  three 
memorable  laws  which  are  called  by  his  name,  and 
which  were  intended  to  redress  the  three  great  evils  of 
which  the  plebeians  complained.  He  was  supported, 
with  eminent  ability  and  firmness,  by  his  colleague,  Lu- 
cius Sextius.  The  struggle  appears  to  have  been  the 
fiercest  that  ever  in  any  community  terminated  without 
an  appeal  to  arms.  If  such  a  contest  had  raged  in  any 
Greek  city,  the  streets  would  have  run  with  blood. 
But,  even  in  the  paroxysms  of  faction,  the  Roman  re- 
tained his  gravity,  his  respect  for  law,  and  his  tender- 
ness for  the  lives  of  his  fellow-citizens.  Year  after  year 
Licinius  and  Sextius  were  re-elected  tribunes.  Year 
after  year,  if  the  narrative  which  has  come  down  to  us 
is  to  be  trusted,  they  continued  to  exert,  to  the  full  ex- 
tent, their  power  of  stopping  the  whole  machine  of 
government.  No  curule  magistrates  could  be  chosen  ; 
no  military  muster  could  be  held.  We  know  too  little 
of  the  state  of  Rome  in  those  days  to  be  able  to  con- 
jecture how,  during  that  long  anarchy,  the  peace  was 
kept,  and  ordinary  justice  administered  between  man 
and  man.  The  animosity  of  both  parties  rose  to  the 
greatest  height.  The  excitement,  we  may  well  sup- 
pose, would  have  been  peculiarly  intense  at  the  annual 
election  of  tribunes.  On  such  occasions  there  can  be 
little  doubt  that  the  great  families  did  all  that  could  be 
done,  by  threats  and  caresses,  to  break  the  union  of  the 
plebeians.  That  union,  however,  proved  indissoluble. 
At  length  the  good  cause  triumphed.  The  Licinian 
laws  were  carried.  Lucius  Sextius  was  the  first  ple- 
beian consul,  Caius  Licinius  the  third. 


Virginia  105 

The  results  of  this  great  change  were  singularly  hap- 
py and  glorious.  Two  centuries  of  prosperity,  har- 
mony, and  victory  followed  the  reconciliation  of  the 
orders.  Men  who  remembered  Rome  engaged  in  waging 
petty  wars  almost  within  sight  of  the  Capitol,  lived  to 
see  her  mistress  of  Italy.  While  the  disabilities  of 
the  plebeians  continued,  she  was  scarcely  able  to  main- 
tain her  ground  against  the  Volscians  and  Hernicans. 
When  those  disabilities  were  removed,  she  rapidly  be- 
came more  than  a  match  for  Carthage  and  Macedon. 

During  the  great  Licinian  contest  the  plebeian  poets 
were,  doubtless,  not  silent.  Even  in  modern  times 
songs  have  been  by  no  means  without  influence  on 
public  affairs  ;  and  we  may  therefore  infer  that,  in  a 
society  where  printing  was  unknown  and  where  books 
were  rare,  a  pathetic  or  humorous  party-ballad  must 
have  produced  effects  such  as  we  can  but  faintly  con- 
ceive. It  is  certain  that  satirical  poems  were  common 
at  Rome  from  a  very  early  period.  The  rustics,  who 
lived  at  a  distance  from  the  seat  of  government,  and 
took  little  part  in  the  strife  of  factions,  gave  vent  to 
their  petty  local  animosities  in  coarse  Fescennine  verse. 
The  lampoons  of  the  city  were  doubtless  of  a  higher 
order  ;  and  their  sting  was  early  felt  by  the  nobility. 
For  in  the  Twelve  Tables,  long  before  the  time  of  the 
Licinian  laws,  a  severe  punishment  was  denounced 
against  the  citizen  who  should  compose  or  recite  verses 
reflecting  on  another.1  Satire  is,  indeed,  the  only  sort 

1  Cicero  justly  infers  from  this  law  that  there  had  been  early 
Latin  poets  whose  works  had  been  lost  before  his  time.  "  Quam- 
quam  id  quidem  etiam  xii  tabulae  declarant,  condi  jam  turn 
solitum  esse  carmen,  quod  ne  liceret  fieri  ad  alterius  injuriam 
legesanxerunt." — Tusc.y  iv.,  2. 


io6  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome 

of  composition  in  which  the  Latin  poets  whose  works 
have  come  down  to  us  were  not  mere  imitators  of  for- 
eign models  ;  and  it  is  therefore  the  only  sort  of  com- 
position in  which  they  have  never  been  rivalled.  It 
was  not,  like  their  tragedy,  their  comedy,  their  epic 
and  lyric  poetry,  a  hot-house  plant  which,  in  return  for 
assiduous  and  skilful  culture,  gave  only  scanty  and 
sickly  fruits.  It  was  hardy  and  full  of  sap  ;  and  in  all 
the  various  juices  which  it  yielded  might  be  distin- 
guished the  flavor  of  the  Ausonian  soil.  "Satire," 
said  Quintilian,  with  just  pride,  "  is  all  our  own." 
Satire  sprang,  in  truth,  naturally  from  the  constitution 
of  the  Roman  government  and  from  the  spirit  of  the 
Roman  people  ;  and,  though  at  length  subjected  to 
metrical  rules  derived  from  Greece,  retained  to  the  last 
an  essentially  Roman  character.  Lucilius  was  the 
earliest  satirist  whose  works  were  held  in  esteem  under 
the  Caesars.  But  many  years  before  Lucilius  was  born, 
Naevius  had  been  flung  into  a  dungeon,  and  guarded 
there  with  circumstances  of  unusual  rigor,  on  account 
of  the  bitter  lines  in  which  he  had  attacked  the  great 
Caecilian  family.1  The  genius  and  spirit  of  the  Roman 
satirists  survived  the  liberty  of  their  country,  and  were 
not  extinguished  by  the  cruel  despotism  of  the  Julian 
and  Flavian  emperors.  The  great  poet  who  told  the 
story  of  Domitian's  turbot  was  the  legitimate  successor 
of  those  forgotten  minstrels  whose  songs  animated  the 
factions  of  the  infant  republic. 

Those  minstrels,  as  Niebuhr  has  remarked,  appear  to 
have  generally  taken  the  popular  side.  We  can  hardly 
be  mistaken  in  supposing  that,  at  the  great  crisis  of  the 
civil  conflict,  they  employed  themselves  in  versifying 

1  Plautus,  Miles  Glorias  us.    Aulus  Gellius,  111.3. 


Virginia  107 

all  the  most  powerful  and  virulent  speeches  of  the 
tribunes,  and  in  heaping  abuse  on  the  leaders  of  the 
aristocracy.  Every  personal  defect,  every  domestic 
scandal,  every  tradition  dishonorable  to  a  noble  house, 
would  be  sought  out,  brought  into  notice,  and  exag- 
gerated. The  illustrious  head  of  the  aristocratical 
party,  Marcus  Furius  Camillus,  might  perhaps  be,  in 
some  measure,  protected  by  his  venerable  age  and  by 
the  memory  of  his  great  services  to  the  State.  But 
Appius  Claudius  Crassus  enjoyed  no  such  immunity. 
He  was  descended  from  a  long  line  of  ancestors  dis- 
tinguished by  their  haughty  demeanor,  and  by  the 
inflexibility  with  which  they  had  withstood  all  the  de- 
mands of  the  plebeian  order.  While  the  political  con- 
duct and  the  deportment  of  the  Claudian  nobles  drew 
upon  them  the  fiercest  public  hatred,  they  were  accused 
of  wanting,  if  any  credit  is  due  to  the  early  history  of 
Rome,  a  class  of  qualities  which,  in  a  military  common- 
wealth, is  sufficient  to  cover  a  multitude  of  offences. 
The  chiefs  of  the  family  appear  to  have  been  eloquent, 
versed  in  civil  business,  and  learned  after  the  fashion 
of  their  age  ;  but  in  war  they  were  not  distinguished 
by  skill  or  valor.  Some  of  them,  as  if  conscious  where 
their  weakness  lay,  had,  when  filling  the  highest  magis- 
tracies, taken  internal  administration  as  their  depart- 
ment of  public  business,  and  left  the  military  command 
to  their  colleagues.1  One  ot  them  had  been  intrusted 
with  an  army,  and  had  failed  ignominiously.'  None  of 
them  had  been  honored  with  a  triumph.  None  of  them 
had  achieved  any  martial  exploit,  such  as  those  by 
which  Lucius  Quinctius  Cincinnatus,  Titus  Quinctius 

1  In  the  years  of  the  city,  260,  304,  and  330. 
1 1n  the  year  of  the  city,  282. 


io8  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome 

Capitolinus,  Aulus  Cornelius  Cossus,  and,  above  all,  the 
great  Camillus,  had  extorted  the  reluctant  esteem  of  the 
multitude.  During  the  Licinian  conflict,  Appius  Clau- 
dius Crassus  signalized  himself  by  the  ability  and  se- 
verity with  which  he  harangued  against  the  two  great 
agitators.  He  would  naturally,  therefore,  be  the  favorite 
mark  of  the  plebeian  satirists  ;  nor  would  they  have  been 
at  a  loss  to  find  a  point  on  which  he  was  open  to  attack. 
His  grandfather,  called,  like  himself,  Appius  Claud- 
ius, had  left  a  name  as  much  detested  as  that  of  Sex- 
tus  Tarquinius.  This  elder  Appius  had  been  Consul 
more  than  seventy  years  before  the  introduction  of 
the  Licinian  laws.  By  availing  himself  of  a  singular 
crisis  in  public  feeling,  he  had  obtained  the  consent  ot 
the  commons  to  the  abolition  of  the  tribuneship,  and 
had  been  the  chief  of  that  Council  of  Ten  to  which  the 
whole  direction  of  the  State  had  been  committed.  In 
a  few  months  his  administration  had  become  universally 
odious.  It  had  been  swept  away  by  an  irresistible  out- 
break of  popular  fury ;  and  its  memory  was  still  held  in 
abhorrence  by  the  whole  city.  The  immediate  cause 
of  the  downfall  of  this  execrable  government  was  said 
to  have  been  an  attempt  made  by  Appius  Claudius  upon 
the  chastity  of  a  beautiful  young  girl  of  humble  birth. 
The  story  ran  that  the  Decemvir,  unable  to  succeed  by 
bribes  and  solicitations,  resorted  to  an  outrageous  act 
of  tyranny.  A  vile  dependent  of  the  Claudian  House 
laid  claim  to  the  damsel  as  his  slave.  The  cause  was 
brought  before  the  tribunal  of  Appius.  The  wicked 
magistrate,  in  defiance  of  the  clearest  proofs,  gave  judg- 
ment for  the  claimant.  But  the  girl's  father,  a  brave 
soldier,  saved  her  from  servitude  and  dishonor  by  stab- 
bing her  to  the  heart  in  the  sight  of  the  whole  Forum. 


Virginia  109 

That  blow  was  the  signal  for  a  general  explosion. 
Camp  and  city  rose  at  once ;  the  Ten  were  pulled  down ; 
the  tribuneship  was  re-established ;  and  Appius  escaped 
the  hands  of  the  executioner  only  by  a  voluntary  death. 

It  can  hardly  be  doubted  that  a  story  so  admirably 
adapted  to  the  purposes  both  of  the  poet  and  of  the 
demagogue  would  be  eagerly  seized  upon  by  minstrels 
burning  with  hatred  against  the  patrician  order,  against 
the  Claudian  House,  and  especially  against  the  grand- 
son and  namesake  of  the  infamous  Decemvir. 

In  order  that  the  reader  may  judge  fairly  of  these 
fragments  of  the  Lay  of  Virginia,  he  must  imagine  him- 
self a  plebeian  who  has  just  voted  for  the  re-election  of 
Sextius  and  Licinius.  All  the  power  of  the  patricians 
has  been  exerted  to  throw  out  the  two  great  champions 
of  the  commons.  Every  Posthumius,  ^milius,  and 
Cornelius  has  used  his  influence  to  the  utmost. 
Debtors  have  been  let  out  of  the  workhouses  on  con- 
dition of  voting  against  the  men  of  the  people  ;  clients 
have  been  posted  to  hiss  and  interrupt  the  favorite 
candidates  ;  Appius  Claudius  Crassus  has  spoken  with 
more  than  his  usual  eloquence  and  asperity  ;  all  has 
been  in  vain  ;  Licinius  and  Sextius  have  a  fifth  time 
carried  all  the  tribes  ;  work  is  suspended  ;  the  booths 
are  closed  ;  the  plebeians  bear  on  their  shoulders  the 
two  champions  of  liberty  through  the  Forum.  Just  at 
this  moment  it  is  announced  that  a  popular  poet,  a 
zealous  adherent  of  the  tribunes,  has  made  a  new  song 
which  will  cut  the  Claudian  nobles  to  the  heart.  The 
crowd  gathers  round  him,  and  calls  on  him  to  recite  it. 
He  takes  his  stand  on  the  spot  where,  according  to 
tradition,  Virginia,  more  than  seventy  years  ago,  was 
seized  by  the  pander  of  Appius,  and  he  begins  his  story. 


VIRGINIA 

FRAGMENTS  OF  A  LAY  SUNG  IN  THE  FORUM  ON  THE 
DAY  WHEREON  LUCIUS  SEXTIUS  LATERANUS  AND 
CAIUS  LICINIUS  CALVUS  STOLO  WERE  ELECTED 
TRIBUNES  OF  THE  COMMONS  THE  FIFTH  TIME, 
IN  THE  YEAR  OF  THE  CITY  CCCLXXXII 

YE  good  men  of  the  commons,  with  loving  hearts 
and  true, 
Who  stand  by  the  bold  tribunes  that  still  have  stood  by 

you, 
Come,  make  a  circle  round  me,  and  mark  my  tale  with 

care — 
A  tale  of  what  Rome  once  hath  borne,  of  what  Rome 

yet  may  bear. 

This  is  no  Grecian  fable,  of  fountains  running  wine, 
Of  maids  with  snaky  tresses,  or  sailors  turned  to  swine. 
Here,  in  this  very  Forum,  under  the  noonday  sun, 
In  sight  of  all  the  people,  the  bloody  deed  was  done. 
Old  men  still  creep  among  us  who  saw  that  fearful  day, 
Just  seventy  years  and  seven  ago,  when  the  wicked 

Ten  bare  sway. 

no 


Virginia  1 1 1 

Of  all  the  wicked  Ten  still  the  names  are  held 

accursed, 
And  of  all  the  wicked  Ten  Appius  Claudius  was  the 

worst. 
He  stalked  along  the  Forum  like  King  Tarquin  in  his 

pride; 

Twelve  axes  waited  on  him,  six  marching  on  a  side  ; 
The  townsmen  shrank  to  right  and  left,  and  eyed 

askance  with  fear 
His  lowering  brow,  his  curling  mouth  which  always 

seemed  to  sneer  : 
That  brow  of  hate,  that  mouth  ot  scorn,  marks  all  the 

kindred  still ; 
For  never  was   there  Claudius  yet  but  wished  the 

commons  ill. 
Nor  lacks  he  fit  attendance  ;   for  close  behind    his 

heels, 
With  outstretched  chin  and  crouching  pace,  the  client 

Marcus  steals, 
His  loins  girt  up  to  run  with  speed,  be  the  errand  what 

it  may, 
And  the  smile  flickering  on  his  cheek,  for  aught  his 

lord  may  say. 
Such  varlets  pimp  and  jest  for  hire  among  the  lying 

Greeks ; 
Such  varlets  still  are  paid  to  hoot  when  brave  I4cinius 

speaks. 
Where'er  ye  shed  the  honey,  the  buzzing  flies  will 

crowd  ; 
Where'er  ye  fling  the  carrion,  the  raven's  croak  is 

loud  ; 
Where'er  down  Tiber  garbage  floats,  the  greedy  pike 

ye  see; 


ii2  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome 

And  wheresoe'er  such  lord  is  found,  such  client  still 
will  be. 

Just  then,  as  through  one  cloudless  chink  in  a  black 

stormy  sky 
Shines  out  the  dewy  morning-star,  a  fair  young  girl 

came  by. 
With  her  small  tablets  in  her  hand,  and  her  satchel  on 

her  arm, 
Home  she  went  bounding  from  the  school,  nor  dreamed 

of  shame  or  harm  ; 

And  past  those  dreaded  axes  she  innocently  ran, 
With  bright,  frank  brow  that  had  not  learned  to  blush 

at  gaze  of  man  ; 
And  up  the  Sacred  Street  she  turned,  and,  as  she 

danced  along, 

She  warbled  gayly  to  herself  lines  of  the  good  old  song, 
How  for  a  sport  the  princes  came  spurring  irom  the 

camp, 

And  found  Lucrece,  combing  the  fleece,  under  the  mid- 
night lamp. 
The  maiden  sang  as  sings  the  lark  when  up  he  darts 

his  flight 
From  his  nest  in  the  green  April  corn  to  meet  the 

morning  light ; 
And  Appius  heard  her  sweet  young  voice,  and  saw  her 

sweet  young  face, 
And  loved  her  with  the  accursed  love  of  his  accursed 

race  ; 

And  all  along  the  Forum,  and  up  the  Sacred  Street, 
His  vulture  eye  pursued  the  trip  of  those  small  glanc- 
ing feet. 


Virginia  113 

Over  the  Alban  mountains  the  light  of  morning 

broke  ; 
From  all  the  roofs  of  the  Seven  Hills  curled  the  thin 

wreaths  of  smoke  : 

The  city  gates  were  opened  ;  the  Forum,  all  alive 
With  buyers  and  with  sellers,  was  humming  like  a 

hive  ; 
Blithely  on  brass  and  timber  the  craftsman's  stroke  was 

ringing, 
And  blithely  o'er  her  panniers  the  market-girl  was 

singing, 
And  blithely  young  Virginia  came  smiling  from  her 

home  ; 
Ah  !  woe  for  young  Virginia,  the  sweetest  maid  in 

Rome  ! 
With  her  small  tablets  in  her  hand,  and  her  satchel  on 

her  arm, 
Forth  she  went  bounding  to  the  school,  nor  dreamed 

of  shame  or  harm. 
She  crossed  the  Forum  shining  with  stalls  in  alleys 

gay, 
And  just  had  reached  the  very  spot  whereon  I  stand 

this  day, 
When  up  the  varlet  Marcus  came  ;  not  such  as  when 

erewhile 
He  crouched  behind  his  patron's  heels  with  the  true 

client  smile  ; 
He  came  with  lowering  lorehead,  swollen  features,  and 

clenched  fist, 
And  strode  across  Virginia's  path,  and  caught  her  by 

the  wrist. 
Hard  strove  the  frighted  maiden,  and  screamed  with 

look  aghast ; 


H4  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome 

And  at  her  scream  from  right  and  left  the  folk  came 

running  fast ; 
The    money-changer    Crispus,   with  his    thin    silver 

hairs  ; 
And  Hanno,  from  the  stately  booth  glittering  with 

Punic  wares  ; 
And  the  strong  smith  Muraena,  grasping  a  half-forged 

brand  ; 

And  Volero  the  flesher,  his  cleaver  in  his  hand. 
All  came  in  wrath  and  wonder,  for  all  knew  that  fair 

child  ; 
And,  as  she  passed  them  twice  a  day,  all  kissed  their 

hands  and  smiled  ; 
And  the  strong  smith  Muraena  gave  Marcus  such  a 

blow, 
The  caitiff  reeled  three  paces  back,  and  let  the  maiden 

go. 

Yet  glared  he  fiercely  round  him,  and  growled  in  harsh, 

fell  tone. 
"  She  's  mine,  and  I  will  have  her  ;  I  seek  but  for  mine 

own. 
She  is  my  slave,  born  in  my  house,  and  stolen  away 

and  sold, 
The  year  of  the  sore  sickness,  ere  she  was  twelve  hours 

old. 
'T  was  in  the  sad  September,  the  month  of  wail  and 

fright, 
Two  augurs  were  borne  forth  that  morn  ;  the  Consul 

died  ere  night. 

I  wait  on  Appius  Claudius,  I  waited  on  his  sire  ; 
Let  him  who  works  the  client    wrong    beware  the 

patron's  ire  1" 


Virginia  115 

So  spake  the  varlet  Marcus  ;  and  dread  and  silence 

came 
On  all  the  people  at  the  sound  of  the  great  Claudian 

name. 
For  then  there  was  no  tribune  to  speak  the  word  of 

might, 
Which  makes  the  rich  man  tremble,  and  guards  the 

poor  man's  right. 

There  was  no  brave  L,icinius,  no  honest  Sextius  then  ; 
But  all  the  city,  in  great  fear,  obeyed  the  wicked  Ten. 
Yet  ere  the  varlet  Marcus  again  might  seize  the  maid, 
Who  clung  tight  to  Mursena's  skirt,  and  sobbed,  and 

shrieked  for  aid, 
Forth  through  the  throng  of  gazers  the  young  Icilius 

pressed, 
And  stamped  his  foot,  and  rent  his  gown,  and  smote 

upon  his  breast, 
And  sprang  upon  that  column,  by  many  a  minstrel 

sung, 
Whereon   three   mouldering   helmets,    three    rusting 

swords,  are  hung, 
And  beckoned  to  the  people,  and  in  bold  voice  and 

clear 
Poured  thick  and  fast  the  burning  words  which  tyrants 

quake  to  hear : 

"  Now,  by  your  children's  cradles,  now  by   your 

fathers'  graves, 

Be  men  to-day,  Quirites,  or  be  forever  slaves  ! 
For  this  did  Servius  give  us  laws  ?     For  this  did 

Lucrece  bleed  ? 
For  this  was  the  great  vengeance  wrought  on  Tarquin's 

evil  seed  ? 


n6  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome 

For  this  did  those  false  sons  make  red  the  axes  of  their 

sire  ? 
For  this  did  Scaevola's  right  hand  hiss  in  the  Tuscan 

fire? 
Shall  the  vile  fox-earth  awe  the  race  that  stormed  the 

lion's  den  ? 
Shall  we,  who  could  not  brook  one  lord,  crouch  to  the 

wicked  Ten  ? 
Oh  for  that  ancient  spirit  which  curbed  the  Senate's 

will! 
Oh  for  the  tents  which  in  old  time  whitened  the  Sacred 

Hill  ! 
In  those  brave  days  our  fathers  stood  firmly  side  by 

side  ; 
They  faced  the  Marcian  fury  ;  they  tamed  the  Fabian 

pride; 
They  drove  the  fiercest  Quinctius  an  outcast  forth  from 

Rome  ; 
They  sent  the  haughtiest  Claudius  with  shivered  fasces 

home. 
But  what  their  care  bequeathed  us  our  madness  flung 

away; 
All  the  ripe  fruit  of  threescore  years  was  blighted  in  a 

day. 
Exult,  ye  proud  patricians  !    The  hard-fought  fight  is 

o'er. 
We  strove  for  honors — 't  was  in  vain  ;  for  freedom — 

't  is  no  more. 

No  crier  to  the  polling  summons  the  eager  throng  ; 
No  tribune  breathes  the  word  of  might  that  guards  the 

weak  from  wrong. 
Our  very  hearts,  that  were  so  high,  sink  down  beneath 

your  will. 


Virginia  117 

Riches  and  lands,  and  power  and  state — ye  have  them  ; 

keep  them  still. 
Still  keep  the    holy  fillets;    still    keep  the    purple 

gown, 
The  axes,  and  the  curule  chair,  the  car  and  laurel 

crown  ; 
Still  press  us  for  your  cohorts,  and,  when  the  fight  is 

done, 
Still  fill  your  garners  from  the  soil  which  our  good 

swords  have  won. 
Still,  like  a  spreading  ulcer,  which  leech-craft  may  not 

cure, 
Let  your  foul  usance  eat  away  the  substance  of  the 

poor. 

Still  let  your  haggard  debtors  bear  all  their  fathers  bore; 
Still  let  your  dens  of  torment  be  noisome  as  of  yore  ; 
No  fire  when  Tiber  freezes  ;  no  air  in  dog-star  heat ; 
And  store  of  rods  for  free-born  backs,  and  holes  for  free- 
born  feet. 

Heap  heavier  still  the  fetters  ;  bar  closer  still  the  grate  ; 
Patient  as  sheep  we  yield  us  up  unto  your  cruel  hate. 
But,  by  the  shades  beneath  us,  and  by  the  gods  above, 
Add  not  unto  your  cruel  hate  your  yet  more  cruel  love  ! 
Have  ye  not  graceful  ladies,  whose  spotless  lineage 

springs 
From  consuls  and  high  pontiffs  and  ancient  Alban 

kings — 
Ladies  who  deign  not  on  our  paths  to  set  their  tender 

feet, 
Who  from  their  cars  look  down  with  scorn  upon  the 

wondering  street, 

Who  in  Corinthian  mirrors  their  own  proud  smiles  be- 
hold, 


ii8  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome 

And  breathe  of  Capuan  odors,  and  shine  with  Spanish 

gold? 

Then  leave  the  poor  plebeian  his  single  tie  to  life — 
The  sweet,  sweet  love  of  daughter,  of  sister,  and  of 

wife  ; 
The  gentle  speech,  the  balm  for  all  that  his  vexed  soul 

endures ; 
The  kiss,  in  which  he  half  forgets  even  such  a  yoke  as 

yours. 
Still  let  the  maiden's  beauty  swell  the  father's  breast 

with  pride  ; 
Still  let  the  bridegroom's  arms  infold  an  unpolluted 

bride. 

Spare  us  the  inexpiable  wrong,  the  unutterable  shame, 
That  turns  the  coward's  heart  to  steel,  the  sluggard's 

blood  to  flame, 
I<est,  when  our  latest  hope  is  fled,   ye  taste  of  our 

despair, 
And  learn  by  proof,  in  some  wild  hour,  how  much  the 

wretched  dare." 


Straightway  Virginius  led  the  maid  a  little  space 

aside, 
To  where  the  reeking  shambles  stood,  piled  up  with 

horn  and  hide, 
Close  to  yon  low  dark  archway,  where,  in  a  crimson 

flood, 
I^eaps  down  to  the  great  sewer  the  gurgling  stream  of 

blood. 
Hard  by,  a  flesher  on  a  block  had  laid  his  whittle 

down ; 


Virginia  119 

Virginius  caught  the  whittle  up,  and  hid  it  in  his 

gown. 
And  then  his  eyes  grew  very  dim,  and  his  throat  began 

to  swell, 
And  in  a  hoarse,  changed  voice  he  spake,  ' '  Farewell, 

sweet  child  !     Farewell ! 

Oh  !  how  I  loved  my  darling  !    Though  stern  I  some- 
times be, 
To  thee,  thou  know'st,  I  was  not  so.     Who  could  be 

so  to  thee  ? 
And  how  my  darling  loved  me  !     How  glad  she  was  to 

hear 
My  footstep  on  the  threshold  when  I  came  back  last 

year  ! 
And  how  she  danced  with  pleasure  to  see  my  civic 

crown, 
And  took  my  sword,  and  hung  it  up,  and  brought  me 

forth  my  gown  ! 
Now,  all  those  things  are  over — yes,  all  thy  pretty 

ways, 
Thy  needlework,   thy  prattle,   thy  snatches    of   old 

lays  ; 
And  none  will  grieve  when  I  go  forth,  or  smile  when  I 

return, 
Or  watch  beside  the  old  man's  bed,  or  weep  upon  his 

urn. 
The  house  that  was  the  happiest  within  the  Roman 

walls, 
The  house  that  envied  not  the  wealth  of  Capua's  marble 

halls, 
Now,  for  the  brightness  of  thy  smile,  must  have  eternal 

gloom  ; 
And  for  the  music  of  thy  voice,  the  silence  of  the  tomb. 


120  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome 

The  time  is  come.     See  how  he  points  his  eager  hand 

this  way  ! 
See  how  his  eyes  gloat  on  thy  grief,  like  a  kite's  upon 

the  prey  ! 

With  all  his  wit,  he  little  deems  that,  spurned,  be- 
trayed, bereft, 

Thy  father  hath  in  his  despair  one  fearful  refuge  left. 
He  little  deems  that  in  this  hand  I  clutch  what  still  can 

save 
Thy  gentle  youth  from  taunts  and  blows,  the  portion 

of  the  slave  ; 
Yea,  and  from  nameless  evil,  that  passeth  taunt  and 

blow — 
Foul  outrage  which  thou  knowest  not,  which  thou 

shalt  never  know. 
Then  clasp  me  round  the  neck  once  more,  and  give  me 

one  more  kiss  ; 
And  now,  mine  own  dear  little  girl,  there  is  no  way  but 

this." 
With  that  he  lifted  high  the  steel,  and  smote  her  in  the 

side, 
And  in  her  blood  she  sank  to  earth,  and  with  one  sob 

she  died. 

Then,  for  a  little  moment,  all  people  held  their  breath ; 
And  through  the  crowded  Forum  was  stillness  as  of 

death  ; 

And  in  another  moment  brake  forth  from  one  and  all 
A  cry  as  if  the  Volscians  were  coming  o'er  the  wall. 
Some  with  averted  faces,  shrieking,  fled  home  amain  ; 
Some  ran  to  call  a  leech,  and  some  ran  to  lift  the  slain  : 
Some  felt  her  lips  and  little  wrist,  if  life  might  there  be 

found; 


Virginia  121 

And  some  tore  up  their  garments  fast,  and  strove  to 

stanch  the  wound. 
In  vain  they  ran  and  felt  and  stanched ;  for  never  truer 

blow 
That  good  right  arm  had  dealt  in  fight  against  a 

Volscian  foe. 

When  Appius  Claudius  saw  that  deed,  he  shuddered 

and  sank  down, 
And  hid  his  face  some  little  space  with  the  corner  of 

his  gown, 

Till,  with  white  lips  and  bloodshot  eyes,  Virginius  tot- 
tered nigh, 
And  stood  before  the  judgment-seat,  and  held  the  knife 

on  high. 

"  O  dwellers  in  the  nether  gloom,  avengers  of  the  slain, 
By  this  dear  blood  I  cry  to  you,  do  right  between  us 

twain  ; 
And  even  as  Appius  Claudius  hath  dealt  by  me  and 

mine, 
Deal  you  by  Appius  Claudius  and  all  the  Claudian 

line  !  " 
So  spake  the  slayer  of  his  child,  and  turned  and  went 

his  way  ; 
But  first  he  cast  one  haggard  glance  to  where  the  body 

lay, 
And  writhed,  and  groaned  a  fearful  groan,  and  then, 

with  steadfast  feet, 
Strode  right  across  the  market-place  unto  the  Sacred 

Street. 

Then  up  sprang  Appius  Claudius  :  ' '  Stop  him,  alive 
or  dead  ! 


122  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome 

Ten  thousand  pounds  of  copper  to  the  man  who  brings 

his  head. ' ' 
He  looked  upon  his  clients  ;  but  none  would  work  his 

will. 
He  looked  upon  his  lictors ;   but  they  trembled,  and 

stood  still. 
And,  as  Virginius  through  the  press  his  way  in  silence 

cleft, 

Ever  the  mighty  multitude  fell  back  to  right  and  left. 
And  he  hath  passed  in  safety  unto  his  woful  home, 
And  there  ta'en  horse  to  tell  the  camp  what  deeds  are 

done  in  Rome. 

By  this  the  flood  of  people  was  swollen  from  every 

side, 
And  streets  and  porches  round  were  filled  with  that 

o'erflowing  tide  ; 

And  close  around  the  body  gathered  a  little  train 
Of  them  that  were  the  nearest  and  dearest  to  the  slain. 
They  brought  a  bier,  and  hung  it  with  many  a  cypress 

crown, 
And  gently  they  uplifted  her,   and  gently  laid  her 

down. 
The  face  of  Appius  Claudius  wore  the  Claudian  scowl 

and  sneer, 
And  in  the  Claudian  note  he  cried,  "  What  doth  this 

rabble  here  ? 
Have  they  no  crafts  to  mind  at  home,  that  hitherward 

they  stray  ? 
Ho  !    lictors,   clear  the  market-place,  and  fetch   the 

corpse  away  !  " 

The  voice  of  grief  and  fury  till  then  had  not  been  loud ; 
But  a  deep  sullen  murmur  wandered  among  the  crowd, 


Virginia  123 

Like  the  moaning  noise  that  goes  before  the  whirlwind 

on  the  deep, 
Or  the  growl  of  a  fierce  watch-dog  but  half  aroused  from 

sleep. 
But  when  the  lictors  at  that  word,  tall  yeomen  all  and 

strong, 
Each  with  his  axe  and  sheaf  of  twigs,  went  down  into 

the  throng, 
Those  old  men  say  who  saw  that  day  of  sorrow  and  of 

sin 

That  in  the  Roman  Forum  was  never  such  a  din. 
The  wailing,  hooting,  cursing,  the  howls  of  grief  and 

hate, 
Were  heard  beyond  the  Pincian  Hill,  beyond  the  Latin 

Gate. 
But  close  around  the  body,   where   stood  the  little 

train 

Of  them  that  were  the  nearest  and  dearest  to  the  slain, 
No  cries  were  there,  but  teeth  set  fast,  low  whispers, 

and  black  frowns, 

And  breaking-up  of  benches  and  girding-up  of  gowns. 
'T  was  well  the  lictors  might  not  pierce  to  where  the 

maiden  lay, 
Else  surely  had  they  been  all  twelve  torn  limb  from 

limb  that  day. 
Right  glad  they  were  to  struggle  back,  blood  streaming 

from  their  heads, 

With  axes  all  in  splinters,  and  raiment  all  in  shreds. 
Then  Appius  Claudius  gnawed  his  lip,  and  the  blood 

left  his  cheek  ; 
And  thrice  he  beckoned  with  his  hand,  and  thrice  he 

strove  to  speak  ; 
And  thrice  the  tossing  Forum  set  up  a  frightful  yell : 


124  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome 

"  See,  see,  thou  dog  !  what  thou  hast  done,  and  hide 

thy  shame  in  hell ! 
Thou  that  wouldst  make  our  maidens  slaves  must  first 

make  slaves  of  men. 
Tribunes  !     Hurrah  for  tribunes  !     Down  with  the 

wicked  Ten!" 
And  straightway,  thick  as  hailstones,  came  whizzing 

through  the  air 
Pebbles  and  bricks  and  potsherds  all  round  the  curule 

chair ; 
And  upon  Appius  Claudius  great  fear  and  trembling 

came, 
For  never  was  a  Claudius  yet  brave  against  aught  but 

shame. 
Though  the  great  houses  love  us  not,  we  own,  to  do 

them  right, 
That  the  great  houses,  all  save  one,  have  borne  them 

well  in  fight. 

Still  Caius  of  Corioli,  his  triumphs  and  his  wrongs, 
His  vengeance  and  his  mercy,  live  in  our  camp-fire 

songs. 
Beneath  the  yoke  of  Furius  oft  have  Gaul  and  Tuscan 

bowed  ; 
And  Rome  may  bear  the  pride  of  him  of  whom  herself 

is  proud. 

But  evermore  a  Claudius  shrinks  from  a  stricken  field, 
And  changes  color  like  a  maid  at  sight  of  sword  and 

shield. 
The  Claudian  triumphs  all  were  won  within  the  city 

towers  ; 
The  Claudian  yoke  was  never  pressed  on  any  necks 

but  ours. 
A  Cossus,  like  a  wild-cat,  springs  ever  at  the  face  j 


Virginia  125 

A  Fabius  rushes  like  a  boar  against  the  shouting  chase  ; 
But  the  vile  Claudian  litter,  raging  with  currish  spite, 
Still  yelps  and  snaps  at  those  who  run,  still  runs  from 

those  who  smite. 
So  now  't  was  seen  of  Appius.     When  stones  began  to 

fly, 

He  shook  and  crouched,  and  wrung  his  hands,  and 

smote  upon  his  thigh. 

"  Kind  clients,  honest  lictors,  stand  by  me  in  this  fray! 
Must  I  be  torn  in  pieces  ?    Home,  home,  the  nearest 

way  !" 

While  yet  he  spake,  and  looked  around  with  a  be- 
wildered stare, 
Four  sturdy  lictors  put  their  necks  beneath  the  curule 

chair ; 
And  fourscore  clients  on  the  left,  and  fourscore  on  the 

right, 
Arrayed  themselves  with  swords  and  staves,  and  loins 

girt  up  for  fight. 
But,  though  without  or  staff  or  sword,  so  furious  was 

the  throng 
That  scarce  the  train  with  might  and  main  could  bring 

their  lord  along. 
Twelve  times  the  crowd  made  at  him  ;  five  times  they 

seized  his  gown  ; 
Small  chance  was  his  to  rise  again  if  once  they  got  him 

down ; 
And  sharper  came  the    pelting,   and  evermore    the 

yell— 
"  Tribunes  !   we  will  have  tribunes  !  " — rose  with  a 

louder  swell  : 

And  the  chair  tossed  as  tosses  a  bark  with  tattered  sail 
When  raves  the  Adriatic  beneath  an  eastern  gale, 


126  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome 

When  the  Calabrian  sea-marks  are  lost  in  clouds  of 

spume, 
And  the  great  Thunder-cape  has  donned  his  veil  of 

inky  gloom. 
One  stone  hit  Appius  in  the  mouth,  and  one  beneath 

the  ear  ; 
And  ere  he  reached  Mount  Palatine,  he  swooned  with 

pain  and  fear. 
His  cursed  head,  that  he  was  wont  to  hold  so  high  with 

pride,   , 
Now,  like  a  drunken  man's,  hung  down,  and  swayed 

from  side  to  side  ; 
And  when  his  stout  retainers  had  brought  him  to  his 

door, 
His  face  and  neck  were  all  one  cake  of  filth  and  clotted 

gore. 
As  Appius  Claudius  was  that  day,  so  may  his  grandson 

be! 
God  send  Rome  one  such  other  sight,  and  send  me  there 

to  see! 


THE  PROPHECY  OF  CAPYS 


127 


THE  PROPHECY  OF  CAPYS 

IT  can  hardly  be  necessary  to  remind  any  reader  that, 
according  to  the  popular  tradition,  Romulus,  after 
he  had  slain  his  granduncle  Amulius,  and  restored  his 
grandfather  Numitor,  determined  to  quit  Alba,  the 
hereditary  domain  of  the  Sylvian  princes,  and  to  found 
a  new  city.  The  gods,  it  was  added,  vouchsafed  the 
clearest  signs  of  the  favor  with  which  they  regarded 
the  enterprise,  and  of  the  high  destinies  reserved  for 
the  young  colony. 

This  event  was  likely  to  be  a  favorite  theme  of  the 
old  Latin  minstrels.  They  would  naturally  attribute 
the  project  of  Romulus  to  some  divine  intimation  of  the 
power  and  prosperity  which  it  was  decreed  that  his  city 
should  attain.  They  would  probably  introduce  seers 
foretelling  the  victories  of  unborn  consuls  and  dictators, 
and  the  last  great  victory  would  generally  occupy  the 
most  conspicuous  place  in  the  prediction.  There  is 
nothing  strange  in  the  supposition  that  the  poet  who 
was  employed  to  celebrate  the  first  great  triumph  of  the 
Romans  over  the  Greeks  might  throw  his  song  of  ex- 
ultation into  this  form. 

The  occasion  was  one  likely  to  excite  the  strongest 
feelings  of  national  pride.  A  great  outrage  had  been 
followed  by  a  great  retribution.  Seven  years  before 

129 


130  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome 

this  time,  Lucius  Posthumius  Megellus,  who  sprang 
from  one  of  the  noblest  houses  of  Rome,  and  had  been 
thrice  Consul,  was  sent  ambassador  to  Tarentum,  with 
charge  to  demand  reparation  for  grievous  injuries. 
The  Tarentines  gave  him  audience  in  their  theatre, 
where  he  addressed  them  in  such  Greek  as  he  could 
command,  which,  we  may  well  believe,  was  not  exactly 
such  as  Cineas  would  have  spoken.  An  exquisite 
sense  of  the  ridiculous  belonged  to  the  Greek  char- 
acter ;  and  closely  connected  with  this  faculty  was 
a  strong  propensity  to  flippancy  and  impertinence. 
When  Posthumius  placed  an  accent  wrong,  his  hearers 
burst  into  a  laugh.  When  he  remonstrated,  they 
hooted  him,  and  called  him  barbarian  ;  and  at  length 
hissed  him  off  the  stage  as  if  he  had  been  a  bad  actor. 
As  the  grave  Roman  retired,  a  buffoon  who,  from  his 
constant  drunkenness,  was  nicknamed  the  Pint-pot, 
came  up  with  gestures  of  the  grossest  indecency,  and 
bespattered  the  senatorial  gown  with  filth.  Post- 
humius turned  round  to  the  multitude,  and  held  up 
the  gown,  as  if  appealing  to  the  universal  law  of  na- 
tions. The  sight  only  increased  the  insolence  of  the 
Tarentines.  They  clapped  their  hands,  and  set  up  a 
shout  of  laughter  which  shook  the  theatre.  "  Men  of 
Tarentum,"  said  Posthumius,  "  it  will  take  not  a  little 
blood  to  wash  this  gown.'*  * 

Rome,  in  consequence  of  this  insult,  declared  war 
against  the  Tarentines.  The  Tarentines  sought  for 
allies  beyond  the  Ionian  Sea.  Pyrrhus,  King  of 
Epirus,  came  to  their  help  with  a  large  army;  and,  for 
the  first  time,  the  two  great  nations  of  antiquity  were 
fairly  matched  against  each  other. 

1  Dion.  Hal.  De  Legationibus. 


The  Prophecy  of  Capys          131 

The  fame  of  Greece  in  arms  as  well  as  in  arts  was 
then  at  the  height.  Half  a  century  earlier,  the  career 
of  Alexander  had  excited  the  admiration  and  terror  of 
all  nations  from  the  Ganges  to  the  Pillars  of  Hercules. 
Royal  houses,  founded  by  Macedonian  captains,  still 
reigned  at  Antioch  and  Alexandria.  That  barbarian 
warriors,  led  by  barbarian  chiefs,  should  win  a  pitched 
battle  against  Greek  valor,  guided  by  Greek  science, 
seemed  as  incredible  as  it  would  now  seem  that  the 
Burmese  or  the  Siamese  should,  in  the  open  plain,  put 
to  flight  an  equal  number  of  the  best  English  troops. 
The  Tarentines  were  convinced  that  their  countrymen 
were  irresistible  in  war  ;  and  this  conviction  had  em- 
boldened them  to  treat  with  the  grossest  indignity  one 
whom  they  regarded  as  the  representative  of  an  inferior 
race.  Of  the  Greek  generals  then  living,  Pyrrhus  was 
indisputably  the  first.  Among  the  troops  who  were 
trained  in  the  Greek  discipline  his  Bpirotes  ranked 
high.  His  expedition  to  Italy  was  a  turning-point  in 
the  history  of  the  world.  He  found  there  a  people  who, 
far  inferior  to  the  Athenians  and  Corinthians  in  the  fine 
arts,  in  the  speculative  sciences,  and  in  all  the  refine- 
ments of  life,  were  the  best  soldiers  on  the  face  of  the 
earth.  Their  arms,  their  gradations  of  rank,  their 
order  of  battle,  their  method  of  intrenchment,  were  all 
of  Latin  origin,  and  had  all  been  gradually  brought 
near  to  perfection,  not  by  the  study  of  foreign  models, 
but  by  the  genius  and  experience  of  many  genera- 
tions of  great  native  commanders.  The  first  words 
which  broke  from  the  King,  when  his  practised  eye 
had  surveyed  the  Roman  encampment,  were  full  of 
meaning:  ''These  barbarians,"  he  said,  "have  no- 
thing barbarous  in  their  military  arrangements." 


132  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome 

He  was  at  first  victorious  ;  for  his  own  talents  were 
superior  to  those  of  the  captains  who  were  opposed  to 
him  ;  and  the  Romans  were  not  prepared  for  the  onset 
of  the  elephants  of  the  East,  which  were  then  for  the 
first  time  seen  in  Italy — moving  mountains,  with  long 
snakes  for  hands.1  But  the  victories  of  the  Epirotes 
were  fiercely  disputed,  dearly  purchased,  and  altogether 
unprofitable.  At  length,  Manius  Curius  Dentatus,  who 
had  in  his  first  consulship  won  two  triumphs,  was  again 
placed  at  the  head  of  the  Roman  commonwealth,  and 
sent  to  encounter  the  invaders.  A  great  battle  was 
fought  near  Beneventum.  Pyrrhus  was  completely  de- 
feated. He  repassed  the  sea  ;  and  the  world  learned, 
with  amazement,  that  a  people  had  been  discovered 
who,  in  fair  fighting,  were  superior  to  the  best  troops 
that  had  been  drilled  on  the  system  of  Parmenio  and 
Antigonus. 

The  conquerors  had  a  good  right  to  exult  in  their 
success  ;  for  their  glory  was  all  their  own.  They  had 
not  learned  from  their  enemy  how  to  conquer  him.  It 
was  with  their  own  national  arms,  and  in  their  own 
national  battle-array,  that  they  had  overcome  weapons 
and  tactics  long  believed  to  be  invincible.  The  pilum 
and  the  broadsword  had  vanquished  the  Macedonian 
spear.  The  legion  had  broken  the  Macedonian  pha- 
lanx. Even  the  elephants,  when  the  surprise  pro- 
duced by  their  first  appearance  was  over,  could  cause 
no  disorder  in  the  steady  yet  flexible  battalions  of 
Rome. 

It  is  said  by  Floras,  and  may  easily  be  believed,  that 
the  triumph  far  surpassed  in  magnificence  any  that 

1  Anguimanus  is  the  old  Latin  epithet  for  an  elephant.  Lu- 
cretius, ii.  538,  v.  1302. 


The  Prophecy  of  Capys  133 

Rome  had  previously  seen.  The  only  spoils  which 
Papirius  Cursor  and  Fabius  Maximus  could  exhibit 
were  flocks  and  herds,  wagons  of  rude  structure,  and 
heaps  of  spears  and  helmets.  But  now,  for  the  first 
time,  the  riches  of  Asia  and  the  arts  of  Greece  adorned 
a  Roman  pageant.  Plate,  fine  stuffs,  costly  furniture, 
rare  animals,  exquisite  paintings  and  sculptures,  formed 
part  of  the  procession.  At  the  banquet  would  be  as- 
sembled a  crowd  of  warriors  and  statesmen,  among 
whom  Manius  Curius  Dentatus  would  take  the  highest 
room.  Caius  Fabricius  L,uscinus,  then,  after  two  con- 
sulships and  two  triumphs,  Censor  of  the  Common- 
wealth, would  doubtless  occupy  a  place  of  honor  at  the 
board.  In  situations  less  conspicuous  probably  lay 
some  of  those  who  were,  a  few  years  later,  the  terror 
of  Carthage — Caius  Duilius,  the  founder  of  the  maritime 
greatness  of  his  country;  Marcus  Atilius  Regulus,  who 
owed  to  defeat  a  renown  far  higher  than  that  which  he 
had  derived  from  his  victories ;  and  Caius  Lutatius 
Catulus,  who,  while  suffering  from  a  grievous  wound, 
fought  the  great  battle  of  the  Agates,  and  brought  the 
first  Punic  war  to  a  triumphant  close.  It  is  impossible 
to  recount  the  names  of  these  eminent  citizens  without 
reflecting  that  they  were  all,  without  exception,  ple- 
beians, and  would,  but  for  the  ever-memorable  struggle 
maintained  by  Caius  Licinius  and  Lucius  Sextius,  have 
been  doomed  to  hide  in  obscurity,  or  to  waste  in  civil 
broils,  the  capacity  and  energy  which  prevailed  against 
Pyrrhus  and  Hamilcar. 

On  such  a  day  we  may  suppose  that  the  patriotic  en- 
thusiasm of  a  Latin  poet  would  vent  itself  in  reiterated 
shouts  of  lo  triumphe,  such  as  were  uttered  by  Horace 
on  a  far  less  exciting  occasion,  and  in  boasts  resembling 


134  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome 

those  which  Virgil  put  into  the  mouth  of  Anchises. 
The  superiority  of  some  foreign  nations,  and  especially 
of  the  Greeks,  in  the  lazy  arts  of  peace,  would  be  ad- 
mitted with  disdainful  candor ;  but  pre-eminence  in 
all  the  qualities  which  fit  a  people  to  subdue  and  gov- 
ern mankind  would  be  claimed  for  the  Romans. 

The  following  lay  belongs  to  the  latest  age  of  Latin 
ballad-poetry.  Naevius  and  I4vius  Andronicus  were 
probably  among  the  children  whose  mothers  held  them 
up  to  see  the  chariot  of  Curius  go  by.  The  minstrel 
who  sang  on  that  day  might  possibly  have  lived  to  read 
the  first  hexameters  of  Ennius,  and  to  see  the  first 
comedies  of  Plautus.  His  poem,  as  might  be  expected, 
shows  a  much  wider  acquaintance  with  the  geography, 
manners,  and  productions  of  remote  nations  than  would 
have  been  found  in  compositions  of  the  age  of  Camillus. 
But  he  troubles  himself  little  about  dates,  and,  having 
heard  travellers  talk  with  admiration  of  the  Colossus  of 
Rhodes,  and  of  the  structures  and  gardens  with  which 
the  Macedonian  kings  of  Syria  had  embellished  their 
residence  on  the  banks  of  the  Orontes,  he  has  never 
thought  of  inquiring  whether  these  things  existed  in 
the  age  of  Romulus. 


THE  PROPHECY  OF  CAPYS 


A  LAY  SUNG  AT  THE  BANQUET  IN  THE  CAPITOL  ON 
THE  DAY  WHERKON  MANIUS  CURIUS  DENTATUS, 
A  SECOND  TIME  CONSUL,  TRIUMPHED  OVER  KING 
PYRRHUS  AND  THE  TARENTINES,  IN  THE  YEAR 
OF  THE  CITY  CCCCLXXIX 


NOW  slain  is  King  Amulius, 
Of  the  great  Sylvian  line, 
Who  reigned  in  Alba  Longa 
On  the  throne  of  Aventine. 
Slain  is  the  Pontiff  Gamers, 

Who  spake  the  words  of  doom  : 
11  The  children  to  the  Tiber, 
The  mother  to  the  tomb." 

II 

In  Alba's  lake  no  fisher 

His  net  to-day  is  flinging  ; 
On  the  dark  rind  of  Alba's  oaks 

To-day  no  axe  is  ringing  ; 
The  yoke  hangs  o'er  the  manger, 

The  scythe  lies  in  the  hay  ; 
Through  all  the  Alban  villages 

No  work  is  done  to-day. 
135 


136  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome 

in 

And  every  Alban  burgher 

Hath  donned  his  whitest  gown  ; 
And  every  head  in  Alba 

Weareth  a  poplar  crown  ; 
And  every  Alban  door-post 

With  boughs  and  flowers  is  gay  ; 
For  to-day  the  dead  are  living, 

The  lost  are  found  to-day. 

IV 

They  were  doomed  by  a  bloody  king, 

They  were  doomed  by  a  lying  priest ; 
They  were  cast  on  the  raging  flood, 

They  were  tracked  by  the  raging  beast 
Raging  beast  and  raging  flood 

Alike  have  spared  the  prey  ; 
And  to-day  the  dead  are  living, 

The  lost  are  found  to-day. 


The  troubled  river  knew  them, 

And  smoothed  his  yellow  foam, 
And  gently  rocked  the  cradle 

That  bore  the  fate  of  Rome. 
The  ravening  she- wolf  knew  them, 

And  licked  them  o'er  and  o'er, 
And  gave  them  of  her  own  fierce  milk, 

Rich  with  raw  flesh  and  gore. 
Twenty  winters,  twenty  springs, 

Since  then  have  rolled  away  ; 
And  to-day  the  dead  are  living, 

The  lost  are  lound  to-day. 


«-»  2 
'So  OT 

II 

oS 


The  Prophecy  of  Capys  13? 


VI 

Blithe  it  was  to  see  the  twins, 

Right  goodly  youths  and  tall, 
Marching  from  Alba  L,onga 

To  their  old  grandsire's  hall. 
Along  their  path  fresh  garlands 

Are  hung  from  tree  to  tree  ; 
Before  them  stride  the  pipers, 

Piping  a  note  of  glee. 

vn 

On  the  right  goes  Romulus, 

With  arms  to  the  elbows  red, 
And  in  his  hand  a  broadsword, 

And  on  the  blade  a  head — 
A  head  in  an  iron  helmet, 

With  horse-hair  hanging  down, 
A  shaggy  head,  a  swarthy  head, 

Fixed  in  a  ghastly  frown — 
The  head  of  King  Amulius, 

Of  the  great  Sylvian  line, 
Who  reigned  in  Alba  L,onga 

On  the  throne  of  Aventine* 

VIII 

On  the  left  side  goes  Remus, 

With  wrists  and  fingers  red, 
And  in  his  hand  a  boar-spear, 

And  on  the  point  a  head — 
A  wrinkled  head  and  aged, 

With  silver  beard  and  hair, 
And  holy  fillets  round  it, 

Such  as  the  pontiffs  wear — 


138  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome 

The  head  of  ancient  Gamers, 
Who  spake  the  words  of  doom  : 

"  The  children  to  the  Tiber  ; 
The  mother  to  the  tomb." 


IX 

Two  and  two  behind  the  twins 

Their  trusty  comrades  go, 
Four-and-forty  valiant  men, 

With  club  and  axe  and  bow. 
On  each  side  every  hamlet 

Pours  forth  its  joyous  crowd, 
Shouting  lads  and  baying  dogs, 

And  children  laughing  loud, 
And  old  men  weeping  fondly 

As  Rhea's  boys  go  by, 
And  maids  who  shriek  to  see  the  heads, 

Yet  shrieking,  press  more  nigh. 


So  they  marched  along  the  lake  ; 

They  marched  by  fold  and  stall, 
By  cornfield  and  by  vineyard, 

Unto  the  old  man's  hall. 

XI 

In  the  hall-gate  sat  Capys, 

Capys,  the  sightless  seer  ; 
From  head  to  foot  he  trembled 

As  Romulus  drew  near. 
And  up  stood  stiff  his  thin  white  hair, 

And  his  blind  eyes  flashed  fire  : 


The  Prophecy  of  Capys  139 

"  Hail  !  foster-child  of  the  wondrous  nurse  ! 
Hail !  son  of  the  wondrous  sire  ! 

XII 

"  But  thou — what  dost  thou  here 

In  the  old  man's  peaceful  hall  ? 
What  doth  the  eagle  in  the  coop, 

The  bison  in  the  stall  ? 
Our  corn  fills  many  a  garner  ; 

Our  vines  clasp  many  a  tree  ; 
Our  flocks  are  white  on  many  a  hill ; 

But  these  are  not  for  thee. 

XIII 

"  For  thee  no  treasure  ripens 

In  the  Tartessian  mine  ; 
For  thee  no  ship  brings  precious  bales 

Across  the  Libyan  brine  ; 
Thou  shalt  not  drink  from  amber, 

Thou  shalt  not  rest  on  down  ; 
Arabia  shall  not  steep  thy  locks, 

Nor  Sidon  tinge  thy  gown. 

xrv 

"  Leave  gold  and  myrrh  and  jewels, 

Rich  table  and  soft  bed, 
To  them  who  of  man's  seed  are  born, 

Whom  woman's  milk  hath  fed. 
Thou  wast  not  made  for  lucre, 

For  pleasure,  nor  for  rest ; 
Thou,  that  art  sprung  from  the  War-god's  loins, 

And  hast  tugged  at  the  she- wolf  s  breast. 


14°  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome 

XV 

"  From  sunrise  unto  sunset 

All  earth  shall  hear  thy  fame  ; 
A  glorious  city  thou  shalt  build, 

And  name  it  by  thy  name  : 
And  there,  unquenched  through  ages, 

Like  Vesta's  sacred  fire, 
Shall  live  the  spirit  of  thy  nurse, 

The  spirit  of  thy  sire. 

XVI 

"  The  ox  toils  through  the  furrow, 

Obedient  to  the  goad 
The  patient  ass,  up  flinty  paths, 

Plods  with  his  weary  load  ; 
With  whine  and  bound  the  spaniel 

His  master's  whistle  hears  ; 
And  the  sheep  yields  her  patiently 

To  the  loud  clashing  shears. 

XVII 

"  But  thy  nurse  will  hear  no  master, 

Thy  nurse  will  bear  no  load  ; 
And  woe  to  them  that  shear  her, 

And  woe  to  them  that  goad  ! 
When  all  the  pack,  loud  baying, 

Her  bloody  lair  surrounds, 
She  dies  in  silence,  biting  hard, 

Amidst  the  dying  hounds. 

XVIII 

"  Pomona  loves  the  orchard  ; 
And  L,iber  loves  the  vine  ; 


The  Prophecy  of  Capys  141 

And  Pales  loves  the  straw-built  shed 

Warm  with  the  breath  of  kine  ; 
And  Venus  loves  the  whispers 

Of  plighted  youth  and  maid, 
In  April's  ivory  moonlight 

Beneath  the  chestnut  shade. 

XIX 

"  But  thy  father  loves  the  clashing 

Of  broadsword  and  of  shield  ; 
He  loves  to  drink  the  steam  that  reeks 

From  the  fresh  battle-field  ; 
He  smiles  a  smile  more  dreadful 

Than  his  own  dreadful  frown 
When  he  sees  the  thick  black  cloud  of  smoke 

Go  up  from  the  conquered  town. 

xx 

"  And  such  as  is  the  War-god, 

The  author  of  thy  line, 
And  such  as  she  who  suckled  thee, 

Even  such  be  thou  and  thine. 
Leave  to  the  soft  Campanian 

His  baths  and  his  perfumes  ; 
Leave  to  the  sordid  race  of  Tyre 

Their  dyeing-vats  and  looms  ; 
Leave  to  the  sons  of  Carthage 

The  rudder  and  the  oar  ; 
Leave  to  the  Greek  his  marble  nymphs 

And  scrolls  of  wordy  lore. 

XXI 

"  Thine,  Roman,  is  the  pilum  ; 
Roman,  the  sword  is  thine, 


Lays  of  Ancient  Rome 

The  even  trench,  the  bristling  mound, 

The  legion's  ordered  line  ; 
And  thine  the  wheels  of  triumph 

Which  with  their  laurelled  train 
Move  slowly  up  the  shouting  streets 

To  Jove's  eternal  fane. 

XXII 

"  Beneath  thy  yoke  the  Volscian 

Shall  vail  his  lofty  brow  ; 
Soft  Capua's  curled  revellers 

Before  thy  chairs  shall  bow  ; 
The  Lucumoes  of  Arnus 

Shall  quake  thy  rods  to  see  ; 
And  the  proud  Samnite's  heart  ol  steel 

Shall  yield  to  only  thee. 

XXIII 

"  The  Gaul  shall  come  against  thee 
From  the  land  of  snow  and  night ; 

Thou  shalt  give  his  fair-haired  armies 
To  the  raven  and  the  kite. 

XXIV 

"  The  Greek  shall  come  against  thee, 

The  conqueror  of  the  East. 
Beside  him  stalks  to  battle 

The  huge  earth-shaking  beast — 
The  beast  on  whom  the  castle 

With  all  its  guards  doth  stand, 
The  beast  who  hath  between  his  eyes 

The  serpent  for  a  hand. 


The  Prophecy  of  Capys  143 

First  march  the  bold  Epirotes, 
Wedged  close  with  shield  and  spear, 

And  the  ranks  of  false  Tarentum 
Are  glittering  in  the  rear. 

xxv 

"  The  ranks  of  false  Tarentum 

Like  hunted  sheep  shall  fly  ; 
In  vain  the  bold  Epirotes 

Shall  round  their  standards  die  : 
And  Apennine's  gray  vultures 

Shall  have  a  noble  feast 
On  the  fat  and  on  the  eyes 

Of  the  huge  earth-shaking  beast. 

XXVI 

"  Hurrah  for  the  good  weapons 

That  keep  the  War-god's  land  ! 
Hurrah  for  Rome's  stout  pilum 

In  a  stout  Roman  hand  ! 
Hurrah  for  Rome's  short  broadsword 

That  through  the  thick  array 
Of  levelled  spears  and  serried  shields 

Hews  deep  its  gory  way  ! 

XXVII 

"  Hurrah  for  the  great  triumph 

That  stretches  many  a  mile  ! 
Hurrah  for  the  wan  captives 

That  pass  in  endless  file  ! 
Ho  !  bold  Epirotes,  whither 

Hath  the  Red  King  ta'en  flight  ? 


144  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome 

Ho  !  dogs  of  false  Tarentum, 
Is  not  the  gown  washed  white  ? 


XXVIII 

"  Hurrah  for  the  great  triumph 

That  stretches  many  a  mile  ! 
Hurrah  for  the  rich  dye  of  Tyre, 

And  the  fine  web  of  Nile, 
The  helmets  gay  with  plumage 

Torn  from  the  pheasant's  wings, 
The  belts  set  thick  with  starry  gems 

That  shone  on  Indian  kings, 
The  urns  of  massy  silver, 

The  goblets  rough  with  gold, 
The  many-colored  tablets  bright 

With  loves  and  wars  of  old, 
The  stone  that  breathes  and  struggles, 

The  brass  that  seems  to  speak  ! — 
Such  cunning  they  who  dwell  on  high 

Have  given  unto  the  Greek. 

XXIX 

"  Hurrah  for  Manius  Curius, 

The  bravest  son  of  Rome, 
Thrice  in  utmost  need  sent  forth, 

Thrice  drawn  in  triumph  home  ! 
Weave,  weave,  for  Manius  Curius 

The  third  embroidered  gown  ; 
Make  ready  the  third  lofty  car, 

And  twine  the  third  green  crown  ; 
And  yoke  the  steeds  of  Rosea 

With  necks  like  a  bended  bow  ; 


The  Prophecy  of  Capys  145 

And  deck  the  bull,  Mevania's  bull, 
The  bull  as  white  as  snow. 

XXX 

"  Blest  and  thrice  blest  the  Roman 

Who  sees  Rome's  brightest  day, 
Who  sees  that  long  victorious  pomp 

Wind  down  the  Sacred  Way, 
And  through  the  bellowing  Forum, 

And  round  the  Suppliant's  Grove, 
Up  to  the  everlasting  gates 

Of  Capitolian  Jove. 

XXXI 

"  Then  where,  o'er  two  bright  havens, 

The  towers  of  Corinth  frown  ; 
Where  the  gigantic  King  of  Day 

On  his  own  Rhodes  looks  down  ; 
Where  soft  Orontes  murmurs 

Beneath  the  laurel  shades  ; 
Where  Nile  reflects  the  endless  length 

Of  dark-red  colonnades  ; 
Where  in  the  still  deep  water, 

Sheltered  from  waves  and  blasts, 
Bristles  the  dusky  forest 

Of  Byrsa's  thousand  masts  ; 
Where  fur-clad  hunters  wander 

Amidst  the  northern  ice  ; 
Where  through  the  sand  of  Morning-land 

The  camel  bears  the  spice  ; 
Where  Atlas  flings  his  shadow 

Far  o'er  the  western  foam, 
Shall  be  great  fear  on  all  who  hear 

The  mighty  name  of  Rome." 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS, 
INSCRIPTIONS,  ETC. 


147 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS, 
INSCRIPTIONS,  ETC. 

EPITAPH  ON  HENRY  MARTYN  (1812) 

HERE  Martyn  lies.     In  manhood's  early  bloom 
The  Christian  hero  finds  a  pagan  tomb. 
Religion,  sorrowing  o'er  her  favorite  son, 
Points  to  the  glorious  trophies  that  he  won. 
Eternal  trophies  !  not  with  carnage  red, 
Not  stained  with  tears  by  hapless  captives  shed, 
But  trophies  of  the  Cross  !     For  that  dear  name, 
Through  every  form  of  danger,  death,  and  shame, 
Onward  he  journeyed  to  a  happier  shore, 
Where  danger,  death,  and  shame  assault  no  more. 


149 


LINES  TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  PITT  (1813) 

O  BRITAIN,  dear  isle  !  when  the  annals  of  story 
Shall  tell  of  the  deeds  that  thy  children  have 

done, 
When  the  strains  of  each  poet  shall  sing  of  their 

glory, 

And  the  triumphs  their  skill  and  their  valor  have 
won  ; 

When  the  olive  and  palm  in  thy  chaplet  are  blended, 
When  thy  arts  and  thy  fame  and  thy  commerce 

increase, 

When  thy  arms  through  the  uttermost  coasts  are  ex- 
tended, 
And  thy  war  is  triumphant,  and  happy  thy  peace  ; 

When  the  ocean,  whose  waves  like  a  rampart  flow 
round  thee, 

Conveying  thy  mandates  to  every  shore, 
And  the  empire  of  nature  no  longer  can  bound  thee, 

And  the  world  be  the  scene  of  thy  conquests  no  more; 

Remember  the  man  who  in  sorrow  and  danger, 
When  thy  glory  was  set  and  thy  spirit  was  low, 

150 


Lines  to  the  Memory  of  Pitt      151 

When  thy  hopes  were  o'erturned  by  the  arms  of  the 

stranger, 
And  thy  banners  displayed  in  the  halls  of  the  foe, 

Stood  forth  in  the  tempest  of  doubt  and  disaster, 
Unaided  and  single,  the  danger  to  brave, 

Asserted  thy  claims  and  the  rights  of  his  master, 
Preserved  thee  to  conquer,  and  saved  thee  to  save. 


A  RADICAL  WAR-SONG  (1820) 

AWAKE,  arise,  the  hour  is  come 
For  rows  and  revolutions  ; 
There  's  no  receipt  like  pike  and  drum 

For  crazy  constitutions. 
Close,  close  the  shop  !     Break,  break  the  loom, 

Desert  your  hearths  and  furrows, 
And  throng  in  arms  to  seal  the  doom 
Of  England's  rotten  boroughs. 

We  '11  stretch  that  tort 'ring  Castlereagh 

On  his  own  Dublin  rack,  sir  ; 
We  '11  drown  the  King  in  eau-de-vie, 

The  Laureate  in  his  sack,  sir. 
Old  Eldon  and  his  sordid  hag 

In  molten  gold  we  '11  smother, 
And  stifle  in  his  own  green  bag 

The  Doctor  and  his  brother. 

In  chains  we  '11  hang  in  fair  Guildhall 

The  city's  famed  Recorder, 
And  next  on  proud  Saint  Stephen's  fall, 

Though  Wynne  should  squeak  to  order. 
In  vain  our  tyrants  then  shall  try 

To  'scape  our  martial  law,  sir  ; 
152 


A  Radical  War-Song  153 

In  vain  the  trembling  Speaker  cry 
That  "  strangers  must  withdraw,"  sir. 


Copley  to  hang  offends  no  text ; 

A  rat  is  not  a  man,  sir  ; 
With  schedules  and  with  tax  bills  next 

We  '11  bury  pious  Van,  sir. 
The  slaves  who  loved  the  income-tax 

We  '11  crush  by  scores,  like  mites,  sir, 
And  him,  the  wretch  who  freed  the  blacks 

And  more  enslaved  the  whites,  sir. 

The  peer  shall  dangle  from  his  gate, 

The  bishop  from  his  steeple, 
Till  all,  recanting,  own  the  State 

Means  nothing  but  the  People. 
We  '11  fix  the  Church's  revenues 

On  apostolic  basis  ; 
One  coat,  one  scrip,  one  pair  of  shoes, 

Shall  pay  their  strange  grimaces. 

We  '11  strap  the  bar's  deluding  train 

In  their  own  darling  halter, 
And  with  his  big  church  Bible  brain 

The  parson  at  the  altar. 
Hail  glorious  hour  when  fair  reform 

Shall  bless  our  longing  nation, 
And  Hunt  receive  commands  to  form 

A  new  administration  ! 

Carlisle  shall  sit  enthroned  where  sat 
Our  Cranmer  and  our  Seeker  ; 


154  Miscellaneous  Poems 

And  Watson  show  his  snow-white  hat 
In  England's  rich  Exchequer. 

The  breast  of  Thistle  wood  shall  wear 
Our  Wellesley's  star  and  sash,  man  ; 

And  many  a  mausoleum  fair 
Shall  rise  to  honest  Cashman. 

Then,  then  beneath  the  nine-tailed  cat 

Shall  they  who  used  it  writhe,  sir  ; 
And  curates  lean,  and  rectors  fat, 

Shall  dig  the  ground  they  tithe,  sir. 
Down  with  your  Bayleys  and  your  Bests, 

Your  Giffords  and  your  Gurneys  ! 
We  '11  clear  the  island  of  the  pests 

Which  mortals  name  attorneys. 
Down  with  your  sheriffs  and  your  mayors, 

Your  registrars  and  proctors  ! 
We  '11  live  without  the  lawyer's  cares, 

And  die  without  the  doctor's. 
No  discontented  fair  shall  pout 

To  see  her  spouse  so  stupid  ; 
We  '11  tread  the  torch  of  Hymen  out, 

And  live  content  with  Cupid. 

Then,  when  the  high-born  and  the  great 

Are  humbled  to  our  level, 
On  all  the  wealth  of  Church  and  State, 

I^ike  aldermen,  we  '11  revel. 
We  '11  live  when  hushed  the  battle's  din, 

In  smoking  and  in  cards,  sir, 
In  drinking  unexcised  gin, 

And  wooing  fair  poissardes,  sir. 


IVRY  (1824) 

A  SONG  OF  THE  HUGUENOTS 

NOW  glory  to  the  Lord  of  Hosts,  from  whom  all 
glories  are  ! 
And  glory  to  our  sovereign  liege,   King  Henry  of 

Navarre  ! 

Now  let  there  be  a  merry  sound  of  music  and  of  dance, 
Through  thy  cornfields  green,  and  sunny  vines,  O 

pleasant  land  of  France  ! 
And  thou,  Rochelle,  our  own  Rochelle,  proud  city  of 

the  waters, 
Again  let  rapture  light  the  eyes  of  all  thy  mourning 

daughters  ! 

As  thou  wert  constant  in  our  ills,  be  joyous  in  our  joy, 
For  cold  and  stiff  and  still  are  they  who  wrought  thy 

walls  annoy. 
Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  a  single  field  hath  turned  the  chance 

of  war  ! 
Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  for  Ivry,  and  Henry  of  Navarre  ! 

Oh  !  how  our  hearts  were  beating  when,  at  the  dawn 

of  day, 
We  saw  the  army  of  the  League  drawn  out  in  long 

array; 

155 


156  Miscellaneous  Poems 

With  all  its  priest-led  citizens,  and  all  its  rebel  peers, 

And  Appenzell's  stout  infantry,  andEgmont's  Flemish 
spears ! 

There  rode  the  brood  of  false  Lorraine,  the  curses  of 
our  land  ; 

And  dark  Mayenne  was  in  the  midst,  a  truncheon  in 
his  hand  : 

And,  as  we  looked  on  them,  we  thought  of  Seine's  em- 
purpled flood, 

And  good  Coligni's  hoary  hair  all  dabbled  with  his 
blood  ; 

And  we  cried  unto  the  living  God,  who  rules  the  fate 
of  war, 

To  fight  for  his  own  holy  name,  and  Henry  of  Navarre. 

The  King  is  come  to  marshal  us,  in  all  his  armor 

drest, 
And  he  has  bound  a  snow-white  plume  upon  his  gallant 

crest. 
He  looked  upon  his  people,  and  a  tear  was  in  his 

eye; 
He  looked  upon  the  traitors,  and  his  glance  was  stern 

and  high. 
Right  graciously  he  smiled  on  us,  as  rolled  from  wing 

to  wing, 
Down  all  our  line,  a  deafening  shout,  ' '  God  save  our 

Lord  the  King." 
"  An  if  my  standard-bearer  fall,  as  fall  full  well  he 

may, 

For  never  saw  I  promise  yet  of  such  a  bloody  fray, 
Press  where  ye  see  my  white  plume  shine,  amidst  the 

ranks  of  war, 
And  be  your  oriflamme  to-day  the  helmet  ol  Navarre." 


Ivry  157 

Hurrah  !  the  foes  are  moving.     Hark  to  the  mingled 

din 
Of  fife  and  steed,  and  trump  and  drum,  and  roaring 

culverin. 
The  fiery  Duke  is  pricking  fast  across  Saint  Andrews 

plain, 
With    all    the    hireling    chivalry    of   Guelders    and 

Almayne. 
Now,  by  the  lips  of  those  ye  love,  fair  gentlemen  of 

France, 
Charge  for  the  golden  lilies!    upon  them  with  the 

lance! 
A  thousand  spurs  are  striking  deep,  a  thousand  spears 

in  rest, 

A  thousand  knights  are  pressing  close  behind  the  snow- 
white  crest  ; 
And  in  they  burst,  and  on  they  rushed,  while,  like  a 

guiding  star, 

Amidst  the  thickest   carnage  blazed  the  helmet  of 
Navarre. 

Now,  God  be  praised,  the  day  is  ours  !     Mayenne  hath 

turned  his  rein. 
D'Aumale  hath  cried  for  quarter.     The  Flemish  count 

is  slain. 
Their  ranks  are  breaking  like  thin  clouds  before  a 

Biscay  gale  ; 
The  field  is  heaped  with  bleeding  steeds,  and  flags  and 

cloven  mail. 
And  then  we  thought  on  vengeance,  and,  all  along  our 

van, 
11  Remember  Saint  Bartholomew"  was  passed  from 

man  to  man. 


158  Miscellaneous  Poems 

But  out  spake  gentle  Henry,  "No  Frenchman  is  my  foe: 
Down,    down,   with  every  foreigner  !     but  let  your 

brethren  go." 
Oh  !  was  there  ever  such  a  knight,  in  friendship  or  in 

war, 
As  our  sovereign  lord,  King  Henry,  the  soldier  of 

Navarre  ? 


Right  well  fought  all  the  Frenchmen  who  fought  for 

France  to-day  ; 

And  many  a  lordly  banner  God  gave  them  for  a  prey. 
But  we  of  the  religion  have  borne  us  best  in  fight  ; 
And  the  good  Lord  of  Rosny  hath  ta'en  the  cornet 

white. 

Our  own  true  Maximilian  the  cornet  white  hath  ta'en 
The  cornet  white  with  crosses  black,  the  flag  of  false 

Lorraine. 
Up  with  it  high  !  unfurl  it  wide  !  that  all  the  host  may 

know 
How  God  hath  humbled  the  proud  house  which  brought 

his  Church  such  woe. 
Then  on  the  ground,  while  trumpets  sound  their  loudest 

point  of  war, 
Fling  the  red  shreds,  a  foot-cloth  meet  for  Henry  of 

Navarre. 

Ho  !  maidens  of  Vienna  ;  ho  !  matrons  ol  Lucerne  ; 
Weep,  weep,  and  rend  your  hair  for  those  who  never 

shall  return. 

Ho  !  Philip,  send,  for  charity,  thy  Mexican  pistoles, 
That  Antwerp  monks  may  sing  a  mass  for  thy  poor 

spearmen's  souls. 


Ivry 


159 


Ho  !  gallant  nobles  of  the  League,  look  that  your  arms 

be  bright  ; 
Ho  !    burghers  of  Saint  Genevieve,  keep  watch  and 

ward  to-night. 
For  our  God  hath  crushed  the  tyrant,  our  God  hath 

raised  the  slave, 
And  mocked  the  counsel  of  the  wise  and  the  valor  of 

the  brave. 
Then  glory  to  His  holy  name  from  whom  all  glories 

are; 
And  glory  to  our  sovereign  lord,    King  Henry  of 

Navarre. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  MONCONTOUR     (1823) 


o 


H,  weep  for  Moncontour  !     Oh,  weep  for  the  hour 
When  the  children  of  darkness  and  evil  had 

power, 

When  the  horsemen  of  Valois  triumphantly  trod 
On  the  bosoms  that  bled  for  their  rights  and  their  God! 


Oh,  weep  for  Moncontour  !    Oh,  weep  for  the  slain, 
Who  for  faith  and  for  freedom  lay  slaughtered  in  vain 
Oh,  weep  for  the  living,  who  linger  to  bear 
The  renegade's  shame  or  the  exile's  despair  ! 


One  look,  one  last  look,  to  our  cots  and  our  towers, 
To  the  rows  of  our  vines  and  the  beds  of  our  flowers, 
To  the  church  where  the  bones  of  our  fathers  decayed, 
Where  we  fondly  had  deemed  that  our  own  would  be 
laid. 


Alas  !  we  must  leave  thee,  dear  desolate  home, 
To  the  spearmen  of  Uri,  the  shavelings  of  Rome, 
To  the  serpent  of  Florence,  the  vulture  of  Spain, 
To  the  pride  of  Anjou  and  the  guile  of  Lorraine. 

160 


The  Battle  of  Moncontour        161 

Farewell  to  thy  fountains,  farewell  to  thy  shades, 
To  the  song  of  thy  youths  and  the  dance  of  thy  maids, 
To  the  breath  of  thy  gardens,  the  hum  of  thy  bees, 
And  the  long  waving  line  of  the  blue  Pyrenees. 

Farewell,  and  forever.     The  priest  and  the  slave 
May  rule  in  the  halls  of  the  free  and  the  brave. 
Our  hearths  we  abandon  ;  our  lands  we  resign  ; 
But,  Father,  we  kneel  to  no  altar  but  thine. 


SONGS  OF  THE  CIVIL  WAR 

I.  THE  BATTLE  OF  NASEBY,  BY  OB  ADI  AH  BIND-THEIR- 
KINGS-IN-CHAINS-AND-THEIR-NOBLES-WITH-LINKS- 
OF-IRON,  SERGEANT  IN  IRETON'S  REGIMENT. 
(1824) 

OH,  wherefore  come  ye  forth,  in  triumph  from  the 
North, 
With  your  hands  and  your  feet  and  your  raiment  all 

red? 
And  wherefore  doth  your  rout  send  forth  a  joyous 

shout  ? 

And  whence  be  the  grapes  of  the  wine-press  which 
ye  tread  ? 

Oh,  evil  was  the  root,  and  bitter  was  the  fruit, 

And  crimson  was  the  juice  of  the  vintage  that  we 

trod; 
For  we  trampled  on  the  throng  of  the  haughty  and  the 

strong, 

Who  sat  in  the  high-places  and  slew  the  saints  of 
God. 

It  was  about  the  noon  of  a  glorious  day  of  June 
That  we  saw  their  banners  dance,  and  their  cuirasses 
shine; 

162 


Songs  of  the  Civil  War          163 

And  the  Man  of  Blood  was  there,  with  his  long  essenced 

hair, 

And  Astley  and  Sir  Marmaduke,  and  Rupert  of  the 
Rhine. 

Like  a  servant  of  the  Lord,  with  his  Bible  and  his 

sword, 

The  General  rode  along  us  to  form  us  to  the  fight, 
When  a  murmuring  sound  broke  out,  and  swelled  into 

a  shout, 
Among  the  godless  horsemen  upon  the  tyrant's  right. 

And  hark  !  like  the  roar  of  the  billows  on  the  shore, 
The  cry  of  battle  rises  along  their  charging  line  ! 

For  God !  for  the  Cause !  for  the  Church,  for  the  Laws ! 
For  Charles  King  of  England,  and  Rupert  of  the 
Rhine  ! 

The  furious  German  comes,  with  his  clarions  and  his 

drums, 

His  bravoes  of  Alsatia,  and  pages  of  Whitehall ; 
They  are  bursting  on  our  flanks.     Grasp  your  pikes, 

close  your  ranks  ; 
For  Rupert  never  comes  but  to  conquer  or  to  fall. 

They  are  here !    They  rush  on !    We  are  broken !    We 

are  gone  ! 
Our  left  is  borne  before  them  like  stubble  on  the 

blast. 
O  Lord,  put  forth  thy  might !    O  Lord,  defend  the 

right ! 

Stand  back  to  back,  in  God's  name,  and  fight  it  to 
the  last 


164  Miscellaneous  Poems 

Stout  Skippon  hath  a  wound  ;  the  centre  hath  given 

ground  : 
Hark !  hark !  what  means  the  trampling  of  horsemen 

on  our  rear  ? 
Whose  banners  do  I  see,  boys  ?     'T  is  he,  thank  God, 

't  is  he,  boys. 
Bear  up  another  minute  :  brave  Oliver  is  here. 

Their  heads  all  stooping  low,  their  points  all  in  a  row, 
L,ike  a  whirlwind  on  the  trees,  like  a  deluge  on  the 
dikes, 

Our  cuirassiers  have  burst  on  the  ranks  of  the  Accurst, 
And  at  a  shock  have  scattered  the  forest  of  his  pikes. 

Fast,  fast,  the  gallants  ride,  in  some  safe  nook  to  hide 
Their  coward  heads,  predestined  to  rot  on  Temple 

Bar; 

And  he — he  turns,  he  flies  :  shame  on  those  cruel  eyes 
That  bore  to  look  on  torture,  and  dare  not  look  on 
war. 

Ho  !  comrades,  scour  the  plain  ;  and,  ere  ye  strip  the 

slain, 

First  give  another  stab  to  make  your  search  secure  ; 
Then  shake  from  sleeves  and  pockets  their  broad-pieces 

and  lockets, 
The  tokens  of  the  wanton,  the  plunder  of  the  poor. 

Fools  !  your  doublets  shone  with  gold,  and  your  hearts 

were  gay  and  bold, 

When  you  kissed  your  lily  hands  to  your  lemans  to- 
day ; 


Songs  of  the  Civil  War  165 

And  to-morrow  shall  the  fox,  from  her  chambers  in  the 

rocks, 
Lead  forth  her  tawny  cubs  to  howl  above  the  prey. 

Where  be  your  tongues  that  late  mocked  at  heaven  and 

hell  and  fate, 
And  the  fingers  that  once  were  so  busy  with  your 

blades, 
Your  perfumed  satin  clothes,  your  catches  and  your 

oaths, 

Your  stage-plays  and  your  sonnets,  your  diamonds 
and  your  spades  ? 

Down,  down,  forever  down  with  the  mitre  and  the 

crown, 
With  the  Belial  of  the  Court,  and  the  Mammon  of 

the  Pope  ! 

There  is  woe  in  Oxford  halls ;  there  is  wail  in  Dur- 
ham's stalls  : 

The  Jesuit  smites  his  bosom  ;  the  Bishop  rends  his 
cope. 

And  she  of  the  Seven  Hills  shall  mourn  her  children's 

ills, 

And  tremble  when  she  thinks  on  the  edge  of  Eng- 
land's sword  ; 
And  the  kings  of  earth  in  fear  shall  shudder  when  they 

hear 

What  the  hand  of  God  hath  wrought  for  the  Houses 
and  the  Word. 


Here  warlike  cobblers  railed  from  tops  of  casks 
At  lords  and  love-locks,  monarchy  and  masques. 


i66  Miscellaneous  Poems 

There  many  a  graceless  page,  blaspheming,  reeled, 

From  his  dear  cards  and  bumpers,  to  the  field  ; 

The  famished  rooks,  impatient  of  delay, 

Gnaw  their  cogged  dice  and  curse  the  lingering  prey  ; 

His  sad  Andromache,  with  fruitless  care, 

Paints  her  wan  lips  and  braids  her  borrowed  hair. 

For  Church  and  King  he  quits  his  favorite  arts, 

Forsakes  his  Knaves,  forsakes  his  Queen  of  Hearts  ; 

For  Church  and  King  he  burns  to  stain  with  gore 

His  doublet,  stained  with  naught  but  sack  before. 

From  a  MS.  Poem. 

ii.  THE  CAVALIER'S  MARCH  TO  LONDON  (1824) 

To  horse  !  to  horse  !  brave  Cavaliers  ! 

To  horse  for  Church  and  Crown  ! 
Strike,  strike  your  tents  !  snatch  up  your  spears  ! 

And  ho  for  L,ondon  town  ! 
The  imperial  harlot,  doomed  a  prey 

To  our  avenging  fires, 
Sends  up  the  voice  of  her  dismay 

From  all  her  hundred  spires. 

The  Strand  resounds  with  maidens'  shrieks, 

The  'Change  with  merchants'  sighs, 
And  blushes  stand  on  brazen  cheeks, 

And  tears  in  iron  eyes  ; 
And,  pale  with  fasting  and  with  fright, 

Bach  Puritan  committee 
Hath  summoned  forth  to  prayer  and  fight 

The  Roundheads  of  the  city. 

And  soon  shall  Condon's  sentries  hear 

The  thunder  of  our  drum, 
And  London's  dames,  in  wilder  fear, 

Shall  cry,  Alack  !  they  come  ! 


Songs  of  the  Civil  War          167 

Fling  the  fascines  ;  tear  up  the  spikes  ; 

And  forward,  one  and  all  ! 
Down,  down  with  all  their  train-band  pikes, 

Down  with  their  mud-built  wall ! 

Quarter  ?    Foul  fall  your  whining  noise, 

Ye  recreant  spawn  of  fraud  ! 
No  quarter!     Think  on  Strafford,  boys. 

No  quarter  !     Think  on  L,aud. 
What  ho  !    The  craven  slaves  retire. 

On !     Trample  them  to  mud ! 
No  quarter  !     Charge.     No  quarter!     Fire. 

No  quarter  !     Blood  !     Blood  !     Blood  ! 

Where  next  ?    In  sooth  there  lacks  no  witch, 

Brave  lads,  to  tell  us  where  ; 
Sure  London's  sons  be  passing  rich, 

Her  daughters  wondrous  fair: 
And  let  that  dastard  be  the  theme 

Of  many  a  board's  derision 
Who  quails  for  sermon,  cuff,  or  scream 

Of  any  sweet  Precisian. 

Their  lean  divines,  of  solemn  brow, 

Sworn  foes  to  throne  and  steeple, 
From  an  unwonted  pulpit  now 

Shall  edify  the  people  ; 
Till  the  tired  hangman,  in  despair, 

Shall  curse  his  blunted  shears, 
And  vainly  pinch  and  scrape  and  tear 

Around  their  leathern  ears. 

We  '11  hang,  above  his  own  Guildhall, 
The  city's  grave  Recorder ; 


i68  Miscellaneous  Poems 

And  on  the  den  ot  thieves  we  '11  fall, 
Though  Pym  should  speak  to  order. 

In  vain  the  lank-haired  gang  shall  try 
To  cheat  our  martial  law  ; 

In  vain  shall  Lenthall  trembling  cry 
That  strangers  must  withdraw. 

Of  bench  and  woolsack,  tub  and  chair, 

We  '11  build  a  glorious  pyre, 
And  tons  of  rebel  parchment  there 

Shall  crackle  in  the  fire. 
With  them  shall  perish,  cheek  by  jowl, 

Petition,  psalm,  and  libel, 
The  Colonel's  canting  muster-roll, 

The  Chaplain's  dog-eared  Bible. 

We  '11  tread  a  measure  round  the  blaze 

Where  England's  pest  expires, 
And  lead  along  the  dance's  maze 

The  beauties  of  the  friars  ; 
Then  smiles  on  every  face  shall  shine 

And  joy  in  every  soul. 
Bring  forth,  bring  forth  the  oldest  wine, 

And  crown  the  largest  bowl. 

And  as  with  nod  and  laugh  ye  sip 

The  goblet's  rich  carnation, 
Whose  bursting  bubbles  seem  to  tip 

The  wink  of  invitation, 
Drink  to  those  names — those  glorious  names — 

Those  names  no  time  shall  sever  ; 
Drink,  in  a  draught  as  deep  as  Thames, 

Our  Church  and  King  forever  ! 


SERMON  IN  A  CHURCH-YARD    (1825) 

LET  pious  Damon  take  his  seat 
With  mincing  step  and  languid  smile, 
And  scatter  from  his  'kerchief  sweet 

Sabaean  odors  o'er  the  aisle  ; 
And  spread  his  little  jewelled  hand, 

And  smile  round  all  the  parish  beauties, 
And  pat  his  curls  and  smooth  his  band  — 
Meet  prelude  to  his  saintly  duties. 


the  thronged  audience  press  and  stare  ; 

Let  stifled  maidens  ply  the  fan, 
Admire  his  doctrines  and  his  hair, 

And  whisper,  "  What  a  good  young  man  ! 
While  he  explains  what  seems  most  clear, 

So  clearly  that  it  seems  perplexed, 
I  '11  stay,  and  read  my  sermon  here  ; 

And  skulls  and  bones  shall  be  the  text. 


Art  thou  the  jilted  dupe  of  fame  ? 

Dost  thou  with  jealous  anger  pine 
Whene'er  she  sounds  some  other  name 

With  fonder  emphasis  than  thine  ? 

169 


170  Miscellaneous  Poems 

To  thee  I  preach  :  draw  near  ;  attend  ! 

Look  on  these  bones,  thou  fool,  and  see 
Where  all  her  scorns  and  favors  end, 

What  Byron  is  and  thou  must  be. 


Dost  thou  revere  or  praise  or  trust 

Some  clod  like  those  that  here  we  spurn  ; 
Something  that  sprang,  like  thee,  from  dust, 

And  shall,  like  thee,  to  dust  return  ? 
Dost  thou  rate  statesmen,  heroes,  wits, 

At  one  sear  leaf  or  wandering  feather  ? 
Behold  the  black,  damp,  narrow  pits, 

Where  they  and  thou  must  lie  together. 

Dost  thou  beneath  the  smile  or  frown 

Of  some  vain  woman  bend  thy  knee  ? 
Here  take  thy  stand,  and  trample  down 

Things  that  were  once  as  fair  as  she. 
Here  rave  of  her  ten  thousand  graces, 

Bosom  and  lip,  and  eye  and  chin, 
While,  as  in  scorn,  the  fleshless  faces 

Of  Hamiltons  and  Waldegraves  grin. 

Whate'er  thy  losses  or  thy  gains, 

Whate'er  thy  projects  or  thy  fears, 
Whate'er  the  joys,  whate'er  the  pains, 

That  prompt  thy  baby  smiles  and  tears, 
Come  to  my  school,  and  thou  shalt  learn, 

In  one  short  hour  of  placid  thought, 
A  stoicism  more  deep,  more  stern, 

Than  ever  Zeno's  porch  hath  taught. 


Sermon  in  a  Church-yard         171 

The  plots  and  feats  of  those  that  press 

To  seize  on  titles,  wealth,  or  power 
Shall  seem  to  thee  a  game  of  chess, 

Devised  to  pass  a  tedious  hour. 
What  matters  it  to  him  who  fights 

For  shows  of  unsubstantial  good 
Whether  his  kings  and  queens  and  knights 

Be  things  of  flesh  or  things  of  wood  ? 

We  check  and  take,  exult  and  fret ; 

Our  plans  extend,  our  passions  rise, 
Till  in  our  ardor,  we  forget 

How  worthless  is  the  victor's  prize. 
Soon  fades  the  spell,  soon  comes  the  night ; 

Say,  will  it  not  be  then  the  same, 
Whether  we  played  with  black  or  white, 

Whether  we  lost  or  won  the  game  ? 

Dost  thou  among  these  hillocks  stray, 

O'er  some  dear  idol's  tomb  to  moan  ? 
Know  that  thy  foot  is  on  the  clay 

Of  hearts  once  wretched  as  thy  own. 
How  many  a  father's  anxious  schemes, 

How  many  rapturous  thoughts  of  lovers, 
How  many  a  mother's  cherished  dreams, 

The  swelling  turf  before  thee  covers  ! 

Here,  for  the  living  and  the  dead, 
The  weepers  and  the  friends  they  weep, 

Hath  been  ordained  the  same  cold  bed, 
The  same  dark  night,  the  same  long  sleep. 

Why  shouldst  thou  writhe  and  sob  and  rave 
O'er  those  with  whom  thou  soon  must  be  ? 


1 72  Miscellaneous  Poems 

Death  his  own  sting  shall  cure  ;  the  grave 
Shall  vanquish  its  own  victory. 

Here  learn  that  all  the  griefs  and  joys 

Which  now  torment,  which  now  beguile, 
Are  children's  hurts  and  children's  toys, 

Scarce  worthy  of  one  bitter  smile. 
Here  learn  that  pulpit,  throne,  and  press, 

Sword,  sceptre,  lyre,  alike  are  frail ; 
That  science  is  a  blind  man's  guess, 

And  history  a  nurse's  tale. 

Here  learn  that  glory  and  disgrace, 

Wisdom  and  folly,  pass  away  ; 
That  mirth  hath  its  appointed  space  ; 

That  sorrow  is  but  for  a  day  ; 
That  all  we  love  and  all  we  hate, 

That  all  we  hope  and  all  we  fear, 
Each  mood  of  mind,  each  turn  of  fate, 

Must  end  in  dust  and  silence  here. 


TRANSLATION  FROM  A.  V.  ARNAUI/T  (1826) 
Fables  :  Livre  v.  Fable  16 

THOU  poor  leaf,  so  sear  and  frail, 
Sport  of  every  wanton  gale, 
Whence  and  whither  dost  thou  fly 
Through  this  bleak  autumnal  sky  ? — 
On  a  noble  oak  I  grew, 
Green  and  broad,  and  fair  to  view  ; 
But  the  monarch  of  the  shade 
By  the  tempest  low  was  laid. 
From  that  time,  I  wander  o'er 
Wood  and  valley,  hill  and  moor, 
Wheresoe'er  the  wind  is  blowing, 
Nothing  caring,  nothing  knowing  ; 
Thither  go  I  whither  goes 
Glory's  laurel,  Beauty's  rose. 


[De  ta  tige  de"tachee, 
Pauvre  feuille  desseche'e, 
Ou  vas-tu  ? — Je  n'en  sais  rien. 
L'orage  a  frapp6  le  ch£ne 
Qui  seul  £tait  mon  soutien. 
De  son  inconstante  haleine, 
173 


i?4  Miscellaneous  Poems 

L,e  z£phyr  ou  1'aquilon 
Depuis  ce  jour  me  promene 
De  la  fore't  a  la  plaine, 
De  la  montagne  au  vallon. 
Je  vais  ou  le  vent  me  mene, 
Sans  me  plaindre  ou  m'effrayer  ; 
Je  vais  ou  va  toute  chose, 
Ou  va  la  feuille  de  rose 
Et  la  feuille  de  laurier.] 


DIES  IILE  (1826) 

ON  that  great,  that  awful  day, 
This  vain  world  shall  pass  away. 
Thus  the  Sibyl  sang  of  old, 
Thus  hath  holy  David  told. 
There  shall  be  a  deadly  fear 
When  the  Avenger  shall  appear, 
And  unveiled  before  his  eye 
All  the  works  of  man  shall  lie. 
Hark  to  the  great  trumpet's  tones 
Pealing  o'er  the  place  of  bones  ! 
Hark  !  it  waketh  from  their  bed 
All  the  nations  of  the  dead, 
In  a  countless  throng  to  meet 
At  the  eternal  judgment-seat. 
Nature  sickens  with  dismay, 
Death  may  not  retain  his  prey  : 
And  before  the  Maker  stand 
All  the  creatures  of  his  hand. 
The  great  book  shall  be  unfurled, 
Whereby  God  shall  judge  the  world  ; 
What  was  distant  shall  be  near, 
What  was  hidden  shall  be  clear. 
To  what  shelter  shall  I  fly  ? 
To  what  guardian  shall  I  cry  ? 

175 


176  Miscellaneous  Poems 

Oh,  in  that  destroying  hour, 
Source  of  goodness,  source  of  power, 
Show  thou,  of  thine  own  free  grace, 
Help  unto  a  helpless  race. 
Though  I  plead  not  at  thy  throne 
Aught  that  I  for  thee  have  done, 
Do  not  thou  unmindful  be 
Of  what  thou  hast  borne  for  me  ; 
Of  the  wandering,  of  the  scorn, 
Of  the  scourge,  and  of  the  thorn. 
Jesus,  hast  thou  borne  the  pain, 
And  hath  all  been  borne  in  vain  ? 
Shall  thy  vengeance  smite  the  head 
For  whose  ransom  thou  hast  bled  ? 
Thou,  whose  dying  blessing  gave 
Glory  to  a  guilty  slave  : 
Thou,  who  from  the  crew  unclean 
Didst  release  the  Magdalene  : 
Shall  not  mercy  vast  and  free 
Evermore  be  found  in  thee  ? 
Father,  turn  on  me  thine  eyes, 
See  my  blushes,  hear  my  cries  ; 
Faint  though  be  the  cries  I  make, 
Save  me,  for  thy  mercy's  sake, 
From  the  worm,  and  from  the  fire, 
From  the  torments  of  thine  ire. 
Fold  me  with  the  sheep  that  stand 
Pure  and  safe  at  thy  right  hand. 
Hear  thy  guilty  child  implore  thee, 
Rolling  in  the  dust  before  thee. 
Oh,  the  horrors  of  that  day, 
When  this  frame  ol  sinful  clay, 
Starting  from  its  burial-place, 


Dies  Irae 

Must  behold  thee  face  to  face  ! 
Hear  and  pity,  hear  and  aid, 
Spare  the  creatures  thou  hast  made. 
Mercy,  mercy,  save,  forgive  ! 
Oh,  who  shall  look  on  thee  and  live  ? 


177 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  TIRZAH  AND  AHIRAD 

(1827) 


i 


Genesis  vi.  3. 
T  is  the  dead  of  night : 


Yet  more  than  noonday  light 
Beams  far  and  wide  from  many  a  gorgeous  halL 

Unnumbered  harps  are  tinkling, 

Unnumbered  lamps  are  twinkling, 
In  the  great  city  of  the  fourfold  wall. 

By  the  brazen  castle's  moat, 

The  sentry  hums  a  livelier  note  ; 

The  ship-boy  chants  a  shriller  lay 

From  the  galleys  in  the  bay. 

Shout  and  laugh  and  hurrying  feet 

Sound  from  mart  and  square  and  street, 

From  the  breezy  laurel  shades, 

From  the  granite  colonnades, 

From  the  golden  statue's  base, 

From  the  stately  market-place, 

Where,  upreared  by  captive  hands, 

The  great  Tower  of  Triumph  stands, 

All  its  pillars  in  a  blaze 

With  the  many-colored  rays 

Which  lanterns  of  ten  thousand  dyes 

Shed  on  ten  thousand  panoplies. 
178 


The  Marriage  of  Tirzah  and  Ahirad  179 

But  closest  is  the  throng, 

And  loudest  is  the  song, 
In  that  sweet  garden  by  the  river's  side, 

The  abyss  of  myrtle  bowers, 

The  wilderness  of  flowers, 
Where  Cain  hath  built  the  palace  of  his  pride. 

Such  palace  ne'er  shall  be  again 

Among  the  dwindling  race  of  men. 
From  all  its  threescore  gates  the  light 

Of  gold  and  steel  afar  was  thrown  ; 
Two  hundred  cubits  rose  in  height 

The  outer  wall  of  polished  stone. 

On  the  top  was  ample  space 

For  a  gallant  chariot-race. 

Near  either  parapet  a  bed 

Of  the  richest  mould  was  spread, 
Where  amidst  flowers  of  every  scent  and  hue 
Rich   orange-trees,   and   palms,   and    giant    cedars 
grew. 

In  the  mansion's  public  court 

All  is  revel,  song,  and  sport ; 
For  there,  till  morn  shall  tint  the  east, 
Menials  and  guards  prolong  the  feast. 
The  boards  with  painted  vessels  shine  ; 
The  marble  cisterns  foam  with  wine. 
A  hundred  dancing-girls  are  there 
With  zoneless  waists  and  streaming  hair  ; 
And  countless  eyes  with  ardor  gaze, 

And  countless  hands  the  measure  beat, 
As  mix  and  part  in  amorous  maze 

Those  floating  arms  and  bounding  feet. 
But  none  of  all  the  race  of  Cain, 


i8o  Miscellaneous  Poems 

Save  those  whom  he  hath  deigned  to  grace 
With  yellow  robe  and  sapphire  chain, 

May  pass  beyond  that  outer  space. 

For  now  within  the  painted  hall 

The  First-born  keeps  high  festival. 
Before  the  glittering  valves  all  night 

Their  post  the  chosen  captains  hold, 
Above  the  portal's  stately  height 

The  legend  flames  in  lamps  of  gold  : 
"  In  life  united  and  in  death 

May  Tirzah  and  Ahirad  be  ; 
The  bravest  he  of  all  the  sons  of  Seth, 

Of  all  the  house  of  Cain  the  loveliest  she." 

Through  all  the  climates  of  the  earth 
This  night  is  given  to  festal  mirth  ; 
The  long-continued  war  is  ended, 
The  long-divided  lines  are  blended. 
Ahirad' s  bow  shall  now  no  more 
Make  fat  the  wolves  with  kindred  gore. 
The  vultures  shall  expect  in  vain 
Their  banquet  from  the  sword  of  Cain. 
Without  a  guard  the  herds  and  flocks 
Along  the  frontier  moors  and  rocks 

From  eve  to  morn  may  roam  ; 
Nor  shriek  nor  shout  nor  reddened  sky 
Shall  warn  the  startled  hind  to  fly 

From  his  beloved  home. 
Nor  to  the  pier  shall  burghers  crowd 

With  straining  necks  and  faces  pale, 
And  think  that  in  each  flitting  cloud 

They  see  a  hostile  sail. 
The  peasant  without  fear  shall  guide 


The  Marriage  of  Tirzah  and  Ahirad  181 

Down  smooth  canal  or  river  wide 

His  painted  bark  of  cane, 
Fraught,  for  some  proud  bazaar's  arcades, 
With  chestnuts  from  his  native  shades, 

And  wine  and  milk  and  grain. 
Search  round  the  peopled  globe  to-night, 

Explore  each  continent  and  isle, 
There  is  no  door  without  a  light, 

No  face  without  a  smile. 
The  noblest  chiefs  of  either  race, 

From  north  and  south,  from  west  and  east, 
Crowd  to  the  painted  hall  to  grace 

The  pomp  of  that  atoning  feast. 
With  widening  eyes  and  laboring  breath 
Stand  the  fair-haired  sons  of  Seth, 
As  bursts  upon  their  dazzled  sight 
The  endless  avenue  of  light, 
The  bowers  of  tulip,  rose,  and  palm, 
The  thousand  cressets  fed  with  balm, 
The  silken  vests,  the  boards  piled  high 
With  amber,  gold,  and  ivory, 
The  crystal  founts  whence  sparkling  flow 
The  richest  wines  o'er  beds  of  snow, 
The  walls  where  blaze  in  living  dyes 
The  king's  three  hundred  victories. 
The  heralds  point  the  fitting  seat 
To  every  guest  in  order  meet, 
And  place  the  highest  in  degree 
Nearest  th'  imperial  canopy. 
Beneath  its  broad  and  gorgeous  fold, 
With  naked  swords  and  shields  of  gold, 
Stood  the  seven  princes  of  the  tribes  of  Nod 

Upon  an  ermine  carpet  lay 


1 82  Miscellaneous  Poems 

Two  tiger  cubs  in  furious  play, 
Beneath  the  emerald  throne  where  sat  the  signed  of  God. 

Over  that  ample  forehead  white 

The  thousandth  year  returneth. 
Still,  on  its  commanding  height, 
With  a  fierce  and  blood-red  light, 

The  fiery  token  burneth. 
Wheresoe'er  that  mystic  star 
Blazeth  in  the  van  of  war, 

Back  recoil  before  its  ray 
Shield  and  banner,  bow  and  spear, 

Maddened  horses  break  away 
From  the  trembling  charioteer. 
The  fear  of  that  stern  king  doth  lie 
On  all  that  live  beneath  the  sky  ; 
All  shrink  beneath  the  mark  of  his  despair, 
The  seal  of  that  great  curse  which  he  alone  can  bear. 

Blazing  in  pearls  and  diamonds'  sheen, 

Tirzah,  the  young  Ahirad's  bride, 
Of  humankind  the  destined  queen, 

Sits  by  her  great  forefather's  side. 
The  jetty  curls,  the  forehead  high, 

The  swanlike  neck,  the  eagle  face. 
The  glowing  cheek,  the  rich  dark  eye, 

Proclaim  her  of  the  elder  race. 
With  flowing  locks  of  auburn  hue, 
And  features  smooth  and  eye  of  blue, 

Timid  in  love  as  brave  in  arms, 
The  gentle  heir  of  Seth  askance 
Snatches  a  bashful,  ardent  glance 

At  her  majestic  charms  ; 


The  Marriage  of  Tirzah  and  Ahirad  183 

Blest  when  across  that  brow  high  musing  flashes 

A  deeper  tint  of  rose, 
Thrice  blest  when  from  beneath  the  silken  lashes 

Of  her  proud  eye  she  throws 
The  smile  of  blended  fondness  and  disdain 
Which  marks  the  daughters  of  the  House  of  Cain. 

All  hearts  are  light  around  the  hall 
Save  his  who  is  the  lord  of  all. 
The  painted  roofs,  the  attendant  train, 
The  lights,  the  banquet,  all  are  vain. 
He  sees  them  not.     His  fancy  strays 
To  other  scenes  and  other  days. 
A  cot  by  a  lone  forest's  edge 

A  fountain  murmuring  through  the  trees. 
A  garden  with  a  wild-flower  hedge, 

Whence  sounds  the  music  of  the  bees, 
A  little  flock  of  sheep  at  rest 
Upon  a  mountain's  swarthy  breast. 
On  his  rude  spade  he  seems  to  lean 

Beside  the  well-remembered  stone, 
Rejoicing  o'er  the  promise  green 

Of  the  first  harvest  man  hath  sown. 

He  sees  his  mother's  tears  ; 

His  father's  voice  he  hears, 
Kind  as  when  first  it  praised  his  youthful  skill. 

And  soon  a  seraph-child, 

In  boyish  rapture  wild, 
With  a  light  crook  comes  bounding  from  the  hill, 

Kisses  his  hands,  and  strokes  his  face, 

And  nestles  close  in  his  embrace. 

In  his  adamantine  eye 

None  might  discern  his  agony  ; 


184  Miscellaneous  Poems 

But  they  who  had  grown  hoary  next  his  side, 
And  read  his  stern  dark  face  with  deepest  skill, 

Could  trace  strange  meanings  in  that  lip  of  pride, 
Which  for  one  moment  quivered  and  was  still. 

No  time  for  them  to  mark  or  him  to  feel 
Those  inward  stings  ;  for  clarion,  flute,  and  lyre 
And  the  rich  voices  of  the  countless  quire, 

Burst  on  the  ear  in  one  triumphant  peal. 

In  breathless  transport  sits  the  admiring  throng, 

As  sink  and  swell  the  notes  of  Jubal's  lofty  song. 

"  Sound  the  timbrel,  strike  the  lyre, 
Wake  the  trumpet's  blast  of  fire 

Till  the  gilded  arches  ring. 
Empire,  victory,  and  fame, 
Be  ascribed  unto  the  name 

Of  our  father  and  our  king. 
Of  the  deeds  which  he  hath  done, 
Of  the  spoils  which  he  hath  won, 

L,et  his  grateful  children  sing. 

l<  When  the  deadly  fight  was  fought, 
When  the  great  revenge  was  wrought, 
When  on  the  slaughtered  victims  lay 
The  minion  stiff  and  cold  as  they, 
Doomed  to  exile  sealed  with  flame, 
From  the  west  the  wanderer  came. 
Six-score  years  and  six  he  strayed 
A  hunter  through  the  forest  shade. 
The  lion's  shaggy  jaws  he  tore, 
To  earth  he  smote  the  foaming  boar  ; 
He  crushed  the  dragon's  fiery  crest, 
And  scaled  the  condor's  dizzy  nest, 


The  Marriage  of  Tirzah  and  Ahirad  185 

Till  hardy  sons  and  daughters  fair 
Increased  around  his  woodland  lair. 
Then  his  victorious  bow,  unstrung, 
On  the  great  bison's  horn  he  hung. 
Giraffe  and  elk  he  left  to  hold 

The  wilderness  of  boughs  in  peace, 
And  trained  his  youth  to  pen  the  fold, 

To  press  the  cream  and  weave  the  fleece. 
As  shrank  the  streamlet  in  its  bed, 

As  black  and  scant  the  herbage  grew, 
O'er  endless  plains  his  flocks  he  led 

Still  to  new  brooks  and  pastures  new. 
So  strayed  he  till  the  white  pavilions, 
Of  his  camp  were  told  by  millions, 
Till  his  children's  households  seven 
Were  numerous  as  the  stars  of  heaven. 
Then  he  bade  us  rove  no  more  ; 

And  in  the  place  that  pleased  him  best, 
On  the  great  river's  fertile  shore, 

He  fixed  the  city  of  his  rest. 
He  taught  us  then  to  bind  the  sheaves, 

To  strain  the  palm's  delicious  milk, 
And  from  the  dark-green  mulberry  leaves 

To  cull  the  filmy  silk. 
Then  first  from  straw-built  mansions  roamed 

O'er  flower-beds  trim  the  skilful  bees  ; 
Then  first  the  purple  wine-vats  foamed 

Around  the  laughing  peasant's  knees  ; 
And  olive-yards,  and  orchards  green, 
O'er  all  the  hills  of  Nod  were  seen. 

"  Of  our  father  and  our  king 
Let  his  grateful  children  sing. 


1 86  Miscellaneous  Poems 

From  him  our  race  its  being  draws, 

His  are  our  arts,  and  his  our  laws. 

Like  himself  he  bade  us  be, 

Proud  and  brave,  and  fierce  and  free  ; 

True,  through  every  turn  of  fate, 

In  our  friendship  and  our  hate. 

Calm  to  watch,  yet  prompt  to  dare  ; 

Quick  to  feel,  yet  firm  to  bear  ; 

Only  timid,  only  weak, 

Before  sweet  woman's  eye  and  cheek. 

We  will  not  serve,  we  will  not  know, 

The  God  who  is  our  father's  foe. 

In  our  proud  cities  to  his  name 

No  temples  rise,  no  altars  flame. 

Our  flocks  of  sheep,  our  groves  of  spice, 

To  him  afford  no  sacrifice 

Enough  that  once  the  House  of  Cain 

Hath  courted  with  oblation  vain 

The  sullen  power  above. 
Henceforth  we  bear  the  yoke  no  more  ; 
The  only  gods  whom  we  adore 

Are  glory,  vengeance,  love. 

"  Of  our  father  and  our  king 
Let  his  grateful  children  sing. 
What  eye  of  living  thing  may'  brook 
On  his  blazing  brow  to  look  ? 
What  might  of  living  thing  may  stand 
Against  the  strength  of  his  right  hand  ? 
First  he  led  his  armies  forth 
Against  the  Mammoths  of  the  north, 
What  time  they  wasted  in  their  pride 
Pasture  and  vineyard  far  and  wide. 


The  Marriage  of  Tirzah  and  Ahirad  187 

Then  the  White  River's  icy  flood 

Was  thawed  with  fire  and  dyed  with  blood, 

And  heard  for  many  a  league  the  sound 

Of  the  pine  forests  blazing  round, 

And  the  death-howl  and  trampling  din 

Of  the  gigantic  herd  within. 

From  the  surging  sea  of  flame 

Forth  the  tortured  monsters  came  ; 

As  of  breakers  on  the  shore 

Was  their  onset  and  their  roar  ; 

As  the  cedar- trees  of  God 

Stood  the  stately  ranks  of  Nod. 

One  long  night  and  one  short  day 

The  sword  was  lifted  up  to  slay. 

Then  marched  the  first-born  and  his  sons 
O'er  the  white  ashes  of  the  wood, 
And  counted  of  that  savage  brood 

Nine  times  nine  thousand  skeletons. 

"  On  the  snow  with  carnage  red 
The  wood  is  piled,  the  skins  are  spread. 
A  thousand  fires  illume  the  sky  ; 
Round  each  a  hundred  warriors  lie. 
But,  long  ere  half  the  night  was  spent, 
Forth  thundered  from  the  golden  tent 

The  rousing  voice  of  Cain. 
A  thousand  trumps  in  answer  rang, 
And  fast  to  arms  the  warriors  sprang 

O'er  all  the  frozen  plain. 
A  herald  from  the  wealthy  bay 
Hath  come  with  tidings  of  dismay. 
From  the  western  ocean's  coast 
Seth  hath  led  a  countless  host, 


1 88  Miscellaneous  Poems 

And  vows  to  slay  with  fire  and  sword 
All  who  call  not  on  the  Lord. 
His  archers  hold  the  mountain  forts  ; 
His  light  armed  ships  blockade  the  ports ; 

His  horsemen  tread  the  harvest  down. 
On  twelve  proud  bridges  he  hath  passed 
The  river  dark  with  many  a  mast, 
And  pitched  his  mighty  camp  at  last 

Before  the  imperial  town. 

"  On  the  south  and  on  the  west, 

Closely  was  the  city  prest. 

Before  us  lay  the  hostile  powers. 

The  breach  was  wide  between  the  towers. 

Pulse  and  meal  within  were  sold 

For  a  double  weight  of  gold. 

Our  mighty  father  hath  gone  forth 

Two  hundred  marches  to  the  north. 

Yet  in  that  extreme  of  ill 

We  stoutly  kept  his  city  still  ; 

And  swore  beneath  his  royal  wall, 

Like  his  true  sons,  to  fight  and  fall. 

"  Hark,  hark,  to  gong  and  horn, 

Clarion  and  fife  and  drum  ; 
The  morn,  the  fortieth  morn, 

Fixed  for  the  great  assault,  is  come. 
Between  the  camp  and  city  spreads 
A  waving  sea  of  helmed  heads. 
From  the  royal  car  of  Seth 
Was  hung  the  blood-red  flag  of  death  ; 
At  sight  of  that  thrice-hallowed  sign 

Wide  flew  at  once  each  banner's  fold  ; 


The  Marriage  of  Tirzah  and  Ahirad  189 

The  captains  clashed  their  arms  of  gold  ; 

The  war-cry  of  Elohim  rolled 
Far  down  their  endless  line. 
On  the  northern  hills  afar 
Pealed  an  answering  note  of  war. 
Soon  the  dust,  in  whirlwinds  driven, 
Rushed  across  the  northern  heaven. 
Beneath  its  shroud  came  thick  and  loud 
The  tramp  as  of  a  countless  crowd  ; 
And  at  intervals  were  seen 
I^ance  and  hauberk's  glancing  sheen  ; 
And  at  intervals  were  heard 
Charger's  neigh  and  battle- word. 

"  Oh,  what  a  rapturous  cry 
From  all  the  city's  thousand  spires  arose  ! 

With  what  a  look  the  hollow  eye 
Of  the  lean  watchman  glared  upon  the  foes  ! 
With  what  a  yell  of  joy  the  mother  prest 
The  moaning  baby  to  her  withered  breast. 
When,  through  the  swarthy  cloud  that  veiled  the  plain, 
Burst  on  his  children' s  sight  the  flaming  brow  of  Cain ! '  * 

There  paused  perforce  that  noble  song  ; 

For  from  all  the  joyous  throng 

Burst  forth  a  rapturous  shout  which  drowned 

Singer's  voice  and  trumpet's  sound. 

Thrice  that  stormy  clamor  fell, 

Thrice  rose  again  with  mightier  swell. 

The  last  and  loudest  roar  of  all 

Had  died  along  the  painted  wall. 

The  crowd  was  hushed  ;  the  minstrel  train 

Prepared  to  strike  the  chords  again  ; 

When  on  each  ear  distinctly  smote 


190  Miscellaneous  Poems 

A  low  and  wild  and  wailing  note. 

It  moans  again.     In  mute  amaze, 

Menials  and  guests  and  harpers  gaze. 

They  look  above,  beneath,  around, 

No  shape  doth  own  that  mournful  sound. 

It  comes  not  from  the  tuneful  quire  ; 
It  comes  not  from  the  feasting  peers  ; 

There  is  no  tone  of  earthly  lyre 
So  soft,  so  sad,  so  full  of  tears. 

Then  a  strange  horror  came  on  all 

Who  sat  at  that  high  festival. 

The  far-famed  harp,  the  harp  of  gold, 

Dropped  from  Jubal's  trembling  hold. 

Frantic  with  dismay  the  bride 

Clung  to  her  Ahirad's  side. 

And  the  corpse-like  hue  of  dread 

Ahirad's  haughty  face  o'erspread. 
Yet  not  even  in  that  agony  of  awe 

Did  the  young  leader  of  the  fair-haired  race 
From  Tirzah's  shuddering  grasp  his  hand  withdraw 

Or  turn  his  eyes  from  Tirzah's  livid  face. 
The  tigers  to  their  lord  retreat, 
And  crouch  and  whine  beneath  his  feet. 

Prone  sink  to  earth  the  golden  shielded  seven. 
All  hearts  are  cowed  save  his  alone 
Who  sits  upon  the  emerald  throne  ; 

For  he  hath  heard  Klohim  speak  from  heaven. 
Still  thunders  in  his  ear  the  peal ; 
Still  blazes  on  his  front  the  seal : 
And  on  the  soul  of  the  proud  king 
No  terror  of  created  thing, 
From  sky  or  earth  or  hell  hath  power 
Since  that  unutterable  hour. 


The  Marriage  of  Tirzah  and  Ahirad  191 

He  rose  to  speak,  but  paused,  and  listening  stood, 
Not  daunted,  but  in  sad  and  curious  mood, 

With  knitted  brow  and  searching  eye  of  fire. 
A  death-like  stillness  sank  on  all  around, 
And    through  the    boundless    space    was   heard    no 

sound, 

Save  the  soft  tones  of  that  mysterious  lyre. 
Broken,  faint,  and  low, 
At  first  the  numbers  flow. 
I^ouder,  deeper,  quicker,  still 

Into  one  fierce  peal  they  swell, 
And  the  echoing  palace  fill 

With  a  strange  funereal  yell. 
A  voice  comes  forth.     But  what  or  where  ? 
On  the  earth  or  in  the  air  ? 
I^ike  the  midnight  winds  that  blow 
Round  a  lone  cottage  in  the  snow, 
With  howling  swell  and  sighing  fall, 
It  wails  along  the  trophied  hall. 
In  such  a  wild  and  dreary  moan 
The  watches  of  the  Seraphim 
Poured  out  all  night  their  plaintive  hymn 
Before  the  eternal  throne. 
Then,  when  from  many  a  heavenly  eye 

Drops  as  of  earthly  pity  fell 
For  her  who  had  aspired  too  high, 

For  him  who  loved  too  well. 
When,  stunned  by  grief,  the  gentle  pair 
From  the  nuptial  garden  fair, 
linked  in  a  sorrowful  caress, 
Strayed  through  the  untrodden  wilderness  ; 
And  close  behind  their  footsteps  came 
The  desolating  sword  of  flame, 


192  Miscellaneous  Poems 

And  drooped  the  cedared  alley's  pride, 
And  fountains  shrank  and  roses  died. 

"  Rejoice,  O  Son  of  God,  rejoice," 

Sang  that  melancholy  voice, 

"  Rejoice,  the  maid  is  fair  to  see  ; 

The  bower  is  decked  for  her  and  thee  ; 

The  ivory  lamps  around  it  throw 

A  soft  and  pure  and  mellow  glow. 

Where'er  the  chastened  lustre  falls 

On  roof  or  cornice,  floor  or  walls, 

Woven  of  pink  and  rose  appear 

Such  words  as  love  delights  to  hear. 

The  breath  of  myrrh,  the  lute's  soft  sound, 

Float  through  the  moonlight  galleries  round. 

O'er  beds  of  violet  and  through  groves  of  spice, 

Lead  thy  proud  bride  into  the  nuptial  bower  ; 
For  thou  hast  bought  her  with  a  fearful  price, 

And  she  hath  dowered  thee  with  a  fearful  dower. 
The  price  is  life.     The  dower  is  death. 

Accursed  loss  !    Accursed  gain  ! 
For  her  thou  givest  the  blessedness  of  Seth, 

And  to  thine  arms  she  brings  the  curse  of  Cain. 
Round  the  dark  curtains  of  the  fiery  throne 

Pauses  awhile  the  voice  of  sacred  song  ; 
From  all  the  angelic  ranks  goes  forth  a  groan, 

*  How  long,  O  Lord,  how  long  ?  ' 
The  still  small  voice  makes  answer,  *  Wait  and  see, 
O  sons  of  glory,  what  the  end  shall  be.1 

"  But,  in  the  outer  darkness  of  the  place 
Where  God  hath  shown  his  power  without  his  grace, 
Is  laughter  and  the  sound  of  glad  acclaim, 


The  Marriage  of  Tirzah  and  Ahirad  193 

Loud  as  when,  on  wings  of  fire, 

Fulfilled  of  his  malign  desire, 
From  Paradise  the  conquering  serpent  came. 
The  giant  ruler  of  the  morning-star 

From  off  his  fiery  bed 

Lifts  high  his  stately  head, 
Which  Michael's  sword  hath  marked  with  many  a  scar. 

At  his  voice  the  pit  of  hell 

Answers  with  a  joyous  yell, 

And  flings  her  dusky  portals  wide 

For  the  bridegroom  and  the  bride. 

"  But  louder  still  shall  be  the  din 
In  the  halls  of  Death  and  Sin 
When  the  full  measure  runneth  o'er, 
When  mercy  can  endure  no  more, 
When  he  who  vainly  proffers  grace 
Comes  in  his  fury  to  deface 

The  fair  creation  of  his  hand. 
When  from  the  heaven  streams  down  amain 
For  forty  days  the  sheeted  rain  ; 
And,  from  his  ancient  barriers  free, 
With  a  deafening  roar,  the  sea 

Comes  foaming  up  the  land. 
Mother,  cast  thy  babe  aside  ; 
Bridegroom,  quit  thy  virgin  bride  ; 
Brother,  pass  thy  brother  by  ; 
'T  is  for  life,  for  life,  ye  fly. 
Along  the  drear  horizon  raves 
The  swift-advancing  line  of  waves. 
On,  on  ;  their  frothy  crests  appear 
Each  moment  nearer  and  more  near. 
Urge  the  dromedary's  speed  ; 


194  Miscellaneous  Poems 

Spur  to  death  the  reeling  steed  ; 

If  perchance  ye  yet  may  gain 

The  mountains  that  o'erhang  the  plain. 

"  O  thou  haughty  land  of  Nod, 
Hear  the  sentence  of  thy  God. 
Thou  hast  said,  '  Of  all  the  hills 
Whence,  after  autumn  rains,  the  rills 

In  silver  trickle  down, 
The  fairest  is  that  mountain  white 
Which  intercepts  the  morning  light 

From  Cain's  imperial  town. 
On  its  first  and  gentlest  swell 
Are  pleasant  halls  where  nobles  dwell ; 
And  marble  porticos  are  seen 
Peeping  through  terraced  gardens  green. 
Above  are  olives,  palms,  and  vines  ; 
And  higher  yet  the  dark-blue  pines  ; 
And  highest  on  the  summit  shines 

The  crest  of  everlasting  ice. 
Here  let  the  God  of  Abel  own 
That  human  art  hath  wonders  shown 

Beyond  his  boasted  Paradise. ' 

"  Therefore  on  that  proud  mountain's  crown 

Thy  few  surviving  sons  and  daughters 
Shall  see  their  latest  sun  go  down 

Upon  a  boundless  waste  of  waters. 
None  salutes  and  none  replies  ; 

None  heaves  a  groan  or  breathes  a  prayer  ; 
They  crouch  on  earth  with  tearless  eyes, 

And  clenched  hands,  and  bristling  hair. 
The  rain  pours  on  ;  no  star  illumes 

The  blackness  of  the  roaring  sky. 


The  Marriage  of  Tirzah  and  Ahirad  195 

And  each  successive  billow  booms 

Nigher  still,  and  still  more  nigh. 
And  now  upon  the  howling  blast 
The  wreaths  of  spray  come  thick  and  fast  ; 
And  a  great  billow  by  the  tempest  curled 

Falls  with  a  thundering  crash  ;  and  all  is  o'er. 
And  what  is  left  of  all  this  glorious  world  ? 

A  sky  without  a  beam,  a  sea  without  a  shore. 

"  O  thou  fair  land  where  from  their  starry  home 
Cherub  and  seraph  oft  delight  to  roam, 
Thou  city  of  the  thousand  towers, 

Thou  palace  of  the  golden  stairs, 
Ye  gardens  of  perennial  flowers, 

Ye  moated  gates,  ye  breezy  squares  ; 
Ye  parks  amidst  whose  branches  high 
Oft  peers  the  squirrel's  sparkling  eye  ; 
Ye  vineyards  in  whose  trellised  shade 
Pipes  many  a  youth  to  many  a  maid  ; 
Ye  ports  where  rides  the  gallant  ship  ; 

Ye  marts  where  wealthy  burghers  meet ; 
Ye  dark-green  lanes  which  know  the  trip 

Of  woman's  conscious  feet  ; 
Ye  grassy  meads  where,  when  the  day  is  done, 

The  shepherd  pens  his  fold  ; 
Ye  purple  moors  on  which  the  setting  sun 

Leaves  a  rich  fringe  of  gold  ; 
Ye  wintry  deserts  where  the  larches  grow  ; 
Ye  mountains  on  whose  everlasting  snow 
No  human  foot  hath  trod  ; 

Many  a  fathom  shall  ye  sleep 

Beneath  the  gray  and  endless  deep 
In  that  great  day  of  the  revenge  of  God." 


THE  COUNTRY  CLERGYMAN'S  TRIP  TO 
CAMBRIDGE  (1827) 

AN  EJECTION  BAI<I«AD 

AS  I  sat  down  to  breakfast  in  state 
At  my  living  of  Tithing-cum-Boring, 
With  Betty  beside  me  to  wait, 

Came  a  rap  that  almost  beat  the  door  in. 
I  laid  down  my  basin  of  tea, 

And  Betty  ceased  spreading  the  toast, 
"  As  sure  as  a  gun,  sir,"  said  she, 

"  That  must  be  the  knock  of  the  post." 

A  letter — and  free.     Bring  it  here  : 

I  have  no  correspondent  who  franks. 
No  !  yes  !     Can  it  be  ?    Why,  my  dear, 

'T  is  our  glorious,  our  Protestant  Bankes. 
"  Dear  sir,  as  I  know  you  desire 

That  the  Church  should  receive  due  protection, 
I  humbly  presume  to  require 

Your  aid  at  the  Cambridge  election. 

"  It  has  lately  been  brought  to  my  knowledge 

That  the  ministers  fully  design 
To  suppress  each  cathedral  and  college, 

And  eject  every  learned  divine. 
196 


The  Trip  to  Cambridge  197 

To  assist  this  detestable  scheme 

Three  nuncios  from  Rome  are  come  over  ; 

They  left  Calais  on  Monday  by  steam, 
And  landed  to  dinner  at  Dover. 


"  An  army  of  grim  Cordeliers, 

Well  furnished  with  relics  and  vermin, 
Will  follow,  Lord  Westmoreland  fears, 

To  effect  what  their  chiefs  may  determine. 
Lollard's  Bower,  good  authorities  say, 

Is  again  fitting  up  for  a  prison  ; 
And  a  wood-merchant  told  me  to-day, 

*T  is  a  wonder  how  fagots  have  risen. 

"  The  finance  scheme  of  Canning  contains 

A  new  Easter-offering  tax  ; 
And  he  means  to  devote  all  the  gains 

To  a  bounty  on  thumb-screws  and  racks. 
Your  living,  so  neat  and  compact — 

Pray,  don't  let  the  news  give  you  pain  ! — 
Is  promised,  I  know  for  a  fact, 

To  an  olive-faced  padre  from  Spain." 

I  read,  and  I  felt  my  heart  bleed, 

Sore  wounded  with  horror  and  pity  ; 
So  I  flew,  with  all  possible  speed, 

To  our  Protestant  champion's  committee. 
True  gentlemen,  kind  and  well-bred  ! 

No  fleering  !  no  distance  !  no  scorn  ! 
They  asked  after  my  wife  who  is  dead, 

And  my  children  who  never  were  born. 


198  Miscellaneous  Poems 

They  then,  like  high-principled  Tories, 

Called  our  sovereign  unjust  and  unsteady, 
And  assailed  him  with  scandalous  stories, 

Till  the  coach  for  the  voters  was  ready. 
That  coach  might  be  well  called  a  casket 

Of  learning  and  brotherly  love  ; 
There  were  parsons  in  boot  and  in  basket ; 

There  were  parsons  below  and  above. 

There  were  Sneaker  and  Griper,  a  pair 

Who  stick  to  lyord  Mulesby  like  leeches  ; 
A  smug  chaplain  of  plausible  air, 

Who  writes  my  I,ord  Goslingham's  speeches. 
Doctor  Buzz,  who  alone  is  a  host, 

Who,  with  arguments  weighty  as  lead, 
Proves  six  times  a  week  in  the  Post 

That  flesh  somehow  differs  from  bread. 

Doctor  Nimrod,  whose  orthodox  toes 

Are  seldom  withdrawn  from  the  stirrup  ; 
Doctor  Humdrum,  whose  eloquence  flows 

Like  droppings  of  sweet  poppy  syrup  ; 
Doctor  Rosygill  puffing  and  fanning, 

And  wiping  away  perspiration  ; 
Doctor  Humbug,  who  proved  Mr.  Canning 

The  beast  in  Saint  John's  Revelation. 

A  layman  can  scarce  form  a  notion 
Of  our  wonderful  talk  on  the  road  ; 

Of  the  learning,  the  wit,  and  devotion 
Which  almost  each  syllable  showed  : 

Why  divided  allegiance  agrees 
So  ill  with  our  free  constitution  : 


The  Trip  to  Cambridge  199 

How  Catholics  swear  as  they  please, 
In  hope  of  the  priest's  absolution  ; 

How  the  Bishop  of  Norwich  had  bartered 

His  faith  for  a  legate's  commission  ; 
How  Lyndhurst,  afraid  to  be  martyred, 

Had  stooped  to  a  base  coalition  ; 
How  Papists  are  cased  from  compassion 

By  bigotry  stronger  than  steel ; 
How  burning  would  soon  come  in  fashion, 

And  how  very  bad  it  must  feel. 

We  were  all  so  much  touched  and  excited 

By  a  subject  so  direly  sublime 
That  the  rules  of  politeness  were  slighted, 

And  we  all  of  us  talked  at  a  time  ; 
And  in  tones  which  each  moment  grew  louder 

Told  how  we  should  dress  for  the  show, 
And  where  we  should  fasten  the  powder, 

And  if  we  should  bellow  or  no. 

Thus  from  subject  to  subject  we  ran, 

And  the  journey  passed  pleasantly  o'er, 
Till  at  last  Doctor  Humdrum  began  ; 

From  that  time  I  remember  no  more. 
At  Ware  he  commenced  his  prelection, 

In  the  dullest  of  clerical  drones  ; 
And  when  next  I  regained  recollection 

We  were  rumbling  o'er  Trumpington  stones. 


SONG  (1827) 

OH  stay,  Madonna  !  stay  ; 
'T  is  not  the  dawn  of  day 
That  marks  the  skies  with  yonder  opal  streak  : 
The  stars  in  silence  shine  ; 
Then  press  thy  lips  to  mine, 
And  rest  upon  my  neck  thy  fervid  cheek. 

Oh  sleep,  Madonna  !  sleep  ; 

L,eave  me  to  watch  and  weep 
O'er  the  sad  memory  of  departed  joys, 

O'er  hope's  extinguished  beam, 

O'er  fancy's  vanished  dream, 
O'er  all  that  nature  gives  and  man  destroys. 

Oh  wake,  Madonna  !  wake  ; 

Even  now  the  purple  lake 
Is  dappled  o'er  with  amber  flakes  of  light ; 

A  glow  is  on  the  hill  ; 

And  every  trickling  rill 
In  golden  threads  leaps  down  from  yonder  height. 

Oh  fly,  Madonna  !  fly, 
Lest  day  and  envy  spy 
200 


Song 

What  only  love  and  night  may  safely  know  : 

Fly,  and  tread  softly,  dear  ! 

I^est  those  who  hate  us  hear 
The  sounds  of  thy  light  footsteps  as  they  go. 


2OI 


THE  DELIVERANCE  OF  VIENNA 
TRANSLATED  FROM  VINCENZO  DA  FIUCAJA 

(Published  in  the  Winter's  Wreath.  Liverpool,  1828) 
"  Le  corde  d'  oro  elette,"  etc. 

THE  chords,  the  sacred  chords  of  gold, 
Strike,  O  Muse,  in  measure  bold  ; 
And  frame  a  sparkling  wreath  of  joyous  songs 
For  that  great  God  to  whom  revenge  belongs. 
Who  shall  resist  his  might 
Who  marshals  for  the  fight 
Earthquake  and  thunder,  hurricane  and  flame  ? 
He  smote  the  haughty  race 
Of  unbelieving  Thrace, 

And  turned  their  rage  to  fear,  their  pride  to  shame. 
He  looked  in  wrath  from  high, 

Upon  their  vast  array  ; 
And,  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye, 
Tambour  and  trump  and  battle-cry, 
And  steeds  and  turbaned  infantry, 

Passed  like  a  dream  away. 
Such  power  defends  the  mansions  of  the  just : 

202 


The  Deliverance  of  Vienna       203 

But,  like  a  city  without  walls, 
The  grandeur  of  the  mortal  falls 

Who  glories  in  his  strength  and  makes  not  God  his 
trust. 

The  proud  blasphemers  thought  all  earth  their  own  ; 
They  deemed  that  soon  the  whirlwind  of  their  ire 
Would  sweep  down  tower  and  palace,  dome  and  spire, 
The  Christian  altars  and  the  Augustan  throne. 

And  soon,  they  cried,  shall  Austria  bow 

To  the  dust  her  lofty  brow. 

The  princedoms  of  Almayne 

Shall  wear  the  Phrygian  chain  ; 
In  humbler  waves  shall  vassal  Tiber  roll ; 

And  Rome,  a  slave  forlorn, 

Her  laurelled  tresses  shorn, 
Shall  feel  our  iron  in  her  inmost  soul. 

Who  shall  bid  the  torrent  stay  ? 

Who  shall  bar  the  lightning's  way  ? 

Who  arrest  the  advancing  van 

Of  the  fiery  Ottoman  ? 

As  the  curling  smoke-wreaths  fly 
When  fresh  breezes  clear  the  sky, 
Passed  away  each  swelling  boast 
Of  the  misbelieving  host. 
From  the  Hebrus  rolling  far 
Came  the  murky  cloud  of  war, 
And  in  shower  and  tempest  dread 
Burst  on  Austria's  fenceless  head. 

But  not  for  vaunt  or  threat 

Didst  thou,  O  Lord,  forget 
The  flock  so  dearly  bought,  and  loved  so  well. 


204  Miscellaneous  Poems 

Even  in  the  very  hour 

Of  guilty  pride  and  power 
Full  on  the  circumcised  thy  vengeance  fell. 

Then  the  fields  were  heaped  with  dead, 

Then  the  streams  with  gore  were  red, 
And  every  bird  of  prey,  and  every  beast, 
From  wood  and  cavern  thronged  to  thy  great  feast. 

What  terror  seized  the  fiends  obscene  of  Nile  ! 

How  wildly  in  his  place  of  doom  beneath, 

Arabia's  lying  prophet  gnashed  his  teeth, 

And  cursed  his  blighted  hopes  and  wasted  guile  ! 

When,  at  the  bidding  of  thy  sovereign  might, 

Flew  on  their  destined  path 

Thy  messengers  of  wrath, 
Riding  on  storms  and  wrapped  in  deepest  night. 

The  Phthian  mountains  saw, 

And  quaked  with  mystic  awe  : 
The  proud  Sultana  of  the  Straits  bowed  down 
Her  jewelled  neck  and  her  embattled  crown. 

The  miscreants,  as  they  raised  their  eyes 

Glaring  defiance  on  thy  skies, 

Saw  adverse  winds  and  clouds  display 

The  terrors  of  their  black  array  ; 

Saw  each  portentous  star 
Whose  fiery  aspect  turned  of  yore  to  flight 
The  iron  chariots  of  the  Canaanite 

Gird  its  bright  harness  for  a  deadlier  war. 

Beneath  thy  withering  look 
Their  limbs  with  palsy  shook  ; 
Scattered  on  earth  the  Crescent  banners  lay  ; 


The  Deliverance  of  Vienna       205 

Trembled  with  panic  fear 

Sabre  and  targe  and  spear, 
Through  the  proud  armies  of  the  rising  day. 

Faint  was  each  heart,  unnerved  each  hand  ; 

And,  if  they  strove  to  charge  or  stand, 
Their  efforts  were  as  vain 

As  his  who,  scared  in  feverish  sleep 

By  evil  dreams,  essays  to  leap, 
Then  backward  falls  again. 

With  a  crash  of  wild  dismay, 

Their  ten  thousand  ranks  gave  way  ; 

Fast  they  broke,  and  fast  they  fled  ; 

Trampled,  mangled,  dying,  dead, 

Horse  and  horseman  mingled  lay  ; 

Till  the  mountains  of  the  slain 

Raised  the  valleys  to  the  plain. 
Be  all  the  glory  to  thy  name  divine  ! 
The  swords  were  ours  ;  the  arm,  O  lyord,  was  thine. 

Therefore  to  thee,  beneath  whose  footstool  wait 
The  powers  which  erring  man  calls  Chance  and  Fate, 

To  thee  who  hast  laid  low 

The  pride  of  Europe's  foe, 
And  taught  Byzantium's  sullen  lords  to  fear, 

I  pour  my  spirit  out 

In  a  triumphant  shout, 
And  call  all  ages  and  all  lands  to  hear. 

Thou  who  evermore  endurest, 

Loftiest,  mightiest,  wisest,  purest, 

Thou,  whose  will  destroys  or  saves, 

Dread  of  tyrants,  hope  of  slaves, 

The  wreath  of  glory  is  from  thee, 

And  the  red  sword  of  victory. 


206  Miscellaneous  Poems 

There  where  exulting  Danube's  flood 
Runs  stained  with  Islam's  noblest  blood 

From  that  tremendous  field, 
There  where  in  mosque  the  tyrants  met, 
And  from  the  crier's  minaret 

Unholy  summons  pealed, 
Pure  shrines  and  temples  now  shall  be 
Decked  for  a  worship  worthy  thee. 
To  thee  thy  whole  creation  pays 
With  mystic  sympathy  its  praise, 

The  air,  the  earth,  the  seas  : 
The  day  shines  forth  with  livelier  beam  ; 
There  is  a  smile  upon  the  stream, 

An  anthem  on  the  breeze. 
Glory,  they  cry,  to  him  whose  might 
Hath  turned  the  barbarous  foe  to  flight, 
Whose  arm  protects  with  power  divine 
The  city  of  his  favored  line. 

The  caves,  the  woods,  the  rocks,  repeat  the  sound  ; 
The  everlasting  hills  roll  the  long  echoes  round. 

But  if  thy  rescued  Church  may  dare 

Still  to  besiege  thy  throne  with  prayer, 

Sheathe  not,  we  implore  thee,  Lord, 

Sheathe  not  thy  victorious  sword. 

Still  Pannonia  pines  away, 

Vassal  of  a  double  sway  ; 

Still  thy  servants  groan  in  chains, 

Still  the  race  which  hates  thee  reigns. 

Part  the  living  from  the  dead  ; 

Join  the  members  to  the  head  : 

Snatch  thine  own  sheep  from  yon  fell  monster's  hold  ; 
Let  one  kind  shepherd  rule  one  undivided  fold. 


The  Deliverance  of  Vienna       207 

He  is  the  victor,  only  he 
Who  reaps  the  fruits  of  victory. 

We  conquered  once  in  vain 
When  foamed  the  Ionian  waves  with  gore, 
And  heaped  Lepanto's  stormy  shore 

With  wrecks  and  Moslem  slain. 
Yet  wretched  Cyprus  never  broke 
The  Syrian  tyrant's  iron  yoke. 
Shall  the  twice-vanquished  foe 
Again  repeat  his  blow  ? 

Shall  Europe's  sword  be  hung  to  rust  in  peace  ? 
No  !  let  the  red-cross  ranks 
Of  the  triumphant  Franks 
Bear  swift  deliverance  to  the  shrines  of  Greece, 
And  in  her  inmost  heart  let  Asia  feel 
The  avenging  plagues  of  Western  fire  and  steeL 

O  God  !  for  one  short  moment  raise 
The  veil  which  hides  those  glorious  days. 
The  flying  foes  I  see  thee  urge 
Even  to  the  river's  headlong  verge. 
Close  on  their  rear  the  loud  uproar 
Of  fierce  pursuit  from  Ister's  shore 

Comes  pealing  on  the  wind  ; 
The  Raab's  wild  waters  are  before, 

The  Christian  sword  behind. 
Sons  of  perdition,  speed  your  flight. 

No  earthly  spear  is  in  the  rest ; 
No  earthly  champion  leads  to  fight 

The  warriors  of  the  West. 
The  Lord  of  Hosts  asserts  his  old  renown, 
Scatters,  and  smites,  and  slays,  and  tramples  down. 
Fast,  fast,  beyond  what  mortal  tongue  can  say, 


208 


Miscellaneous  Poems 


Or  mortal  fancy  dream, 
He  rushes  on  his  prey  ; 

Till,  with  the  terrors  of  the  wondrous  theme 
Bewildered  and  appalled,  I  cease  to  sing, 
And  close  my  dazzled  eye,  and  rest  my  wearied  wing. 


THE  ARMADA  (1832) 

A  FRAGMENT 

A  TTEND,  all  ye  who  list  to  hear  our  noble  Eng- 
f\     land's  praise  ; 
I  tell  of  the  thrice-famous  deeds  she  wrought  in  ancient 

days, 
When  that  great  fleet  invincible  against  her  bore  in 

vain 
The  richest  spoils  of  Mexico,  the  stoutest  hearts  of 

Spain. 


It  was  about  the  lovely  close  of  a  warm  summer  day, 

There  came  a  gallant  merchant-ship  full  sail  to  Ply- 
mouth Bay  ; 

Her    crew   hath   seen   Castile's    black   fleet,   beyond 
Aurigny's  isle, 

At  earliest  twilight,  on  the  waves  lie  heaving  many  a 
mile. 

At  sunrise  she  escaped  their  van,  by  God's  especial 
grace  ; 

And  the  tall  Pinta,  till  the  noon,  had  held  her  close  in 
chase. 

209 


210  Miscellaneous  Poems 

Forthwith  a  guard  at  every  gun  was  placed  along  the 

wall  ; 
The  beacon  blazed  upon  the  roof  of  Kdgecumbe's  lofty 

hall; 

Many  a  light  fishing-bark  put  out  to  pry  along  the  coast, 
And  with  loose  rein  and  bloody  spur  rode  inland  many 

a  post. 
With  his  white  hair  unbonneted,  the  stout  old  sheriff 

comes ; 
Behind  him  march  the  halberdiers  ;  before  him  sound 

the  drums. 
His  yeomen  round  the  market-cross  make  clear  an 

ample  space  ; 
For  there  behooves  him  to  set  up  the  standard  of  her 

Grace. 
And  haughtily  the  trumpets  peal,  and  gaily  dance  the 

bells, 

As  slow  upon  the  laboring  wind  the  royal  blazon  swells. 
Look  how  the  L,ion  of  the  sea  lifts  up  the  ancient  crown, 
And  underneath  his  deadly  paw  treads  the  gay  lilies 

down. 
So  stalked  he  when  he  turned  to  flight,  on  that  famed 

Picard  field, 
Bohemia's  plume  and  Genoa's  bow  and  Caesar's  eagle 

shield ; 
So  glared  he  when  at  Agincourt  in  wrath  he  turned  to 

bay, 
And  crushed  and  torn  beneath  his  claws  the  princely 

hunters  lay. 
Ho!  strike  the  flag-staff  deep,  Sir  Knight ;  ho  !  scatter 

flowers,  fair  maids  ; 
Ho  !  gunners,  fire  a  loud  salute  ;  ho  !  gallants,  draw 

your  blades  ! 


The  Armada  211 

Thou  sun,  shine  on  her  joyously  ;  ye  breezes,  waft  her 

wide  ; 
Our  glorious  SEMPER  EADEM,  the  banner  of  our  pride  ! 

The  freshening  breeze  of  eve  unfurled  that  banner's 

massy  fold  ; 
The  parting  gleam  of  sunshine  kissed  that  haughty 

scroll  of  gold  ; 
Night  sank  upon  the  dusky  beach  and  on  the  purple 

sea, 
Such  night  in  England  ne'er  had  been,  nor  e'er  again 

shall  be. 
From  Eddystone  to  Berwick  bounds,  from  I/ynn  to 

Milford  Bay, 

That  time  of  slumber  was  as  bright  and  busy  as  the  day  ; 
For  swift  to  east  and  swift  to  west  the  ghastly  war- 
flame  spread, 
High  on  Saint  Michael's  Mount  it  shone  ;  it  shone  on 

Beachy  Head. 
Far  on  the  deep  the  Spaniard  saw,  along  each  southern 

shire, 
Cape  beyond  cape,  in  endless  range,  those  twinkling 

points  of  fire. 
The  fisher  left  his  skiff  to  rock  on  Tamar's  glittering 

waves ; 

The  rugged  miners  poured  to  war  from  Mendip's  sun- 
less caves  ; 
O'er  I^ongleat's  towers,  o'er  Cranbourne's  oaks,  the 

fiery  herald  flew  ; 
He  roused  the  shepherds  of  Stonehenge,  the  rangers  of 

Beaulieu. 
Right  sharp  and  quick  the  bells  all  night  rang  out  from 

Bristol  town, 


212  Miscellaneous  Poems 

And  ere  the  day  three  hundred  horse  had  met  on 

Clifton  Down  ; 
The  sentinel  on  Whitehall  gate  looked  forth  into  the 

night, 
And  saw  o'erhanging  Richmond  Hill  the  streak  of 

blood-red  light. 
Then  bugle's  note  and  cannon's  roar  the  death-like 

silence  broke, 

And,  with  one  start  and  with  one  cry,  the  royal  city  woke. 
At  once  on  all  her  stately  gates  arose  the  answering 

fires ; 
At  once  the  wild  alarum  clashed  from  all  her  reeling 

spires1; 
From  all  the  batteries  of  the  Tower  pealed  loud  the 

voice  of  fear; 
And  all  the  thousand  masts  of  Thames  sent  back  a 

louder  cheer  ; 
And  from  the  furthest  wards  was  heard  the  rush  of 

hurrying  feet, 
And  the  broad  streams  of  pikes  and  flags  rushed  down 

each  roaring  street ; 
And  broader  still  became  the  blaze,  and  louder  still  the 

din, 

As  fast  from  every  village  round  the  horse  came  spur- 
ring in  : 

And  eastward  straight  from  wild  Blackheath  the  war- 
like errand  went, 
And  roused  in  many  an  ancient  hall  the  gallant  squires 

of  Kent. 
Southward  from  Surrey's  pleasant  hills   flew   those 

bright  couriers  forth  ; 
High  on  bleak  Hampstead's  swarthy  moor  they  started 

for  the  north : 


The  Armada  213 

And  on  and  on,  without  a  pause,  untired  they  bounded 
still  ; 

All  night  from  tower  to  tower  they  sprang,  they  sprang 
from  hill  to  hill ; 

Till  the  proud  peak  unfurled  the  flag  o'er  Darwin's 
rocky  dales ; 

Till  like  volcanoes  flared  to  heaven  the  stormy  hills  of 
Wales ; 

Till  twelve  fair  counties  saw  the  blaze  on  Malvern's 
lonely  height ; 

Till  streamed  in  crimson  on  the  wind  the  Wrekin's 
crest  of  light ; 

Till  broad  and  fierce  the  star  came  forth  on  Ely's 
stately  fane, 

And  tower  and  hamlet  rose  in  arms  o'er  all  the  bound- 
less plain  ; 

Till  Belvoir's  lordly  terraces  the  sign  to  Lincoln  sent, 

And  Lincoln  sped  the  message  on  o'er  the  wide  vale  of 
Trent ; 

Till  Skiddaw  saw  the  fire  that  burned  on  Gaunt 's  em- 
battled pile, 

And  the  red  glare  on  Skiddaw  roused  the  burghers  of 
Carlisle. 


INSCRIPTION 

ON  THE 

STATUE  OF  LORD  WILLIAM  BENTINCK 
AT  CALCUTTA  (1835) 

To 

WIUJAM  CAVENDISH  BENTINCK, 
Who,  during  seven  years,  ruled  India  with  eminent 

Prudence,  integrity,  and  benevolence  ; 
Who,  placed  at  the  head  of  a  great  empire,  never  laid 

aside 

The  simplicity  and  moderation  of  a  private  citizen  ; 
Who  infused  into  Oriental  despotism  the  spirit  of 

British  Freedom  ; 

Who  never  forgot  that  the  end  of  government  is 
The  happiness  of  the  governed  ; 

Who  abolished  cruel  rites  ; 

Who  effaced  humiliating  distinctions  ; 

Who  gave  liberty  to  the  expression  of  public  opinion  ; 

Whose  constant  study  it  was  to  elevate  the  intellectual 

And  moral  character  of  the  nations  committed  to 

his  charge, 

This  Monument 

Was  erected  by  men 

214 


Inscription 


215 


Who,  differing  in  race,  in  manners,  in  language, 

And  in  religion, 

Cherish,  with  equal  veneration  and  gratitude, 

The  memory  of  his  wise,  upright, 

And  paternal  administration. 


EPITAPH  ON  SIR  BENJAMIN  HEATH 
KIN.    AT  CALCUTTA  (1837) 


This  Monument 
Is  sacred  to  the  memory 

Of 

SIR  BENJAMIN  HKATH  MALKIN,  Knight, 
One  of  the  Judges  of  the  Supreme  Court  of  Judicature; 

A  man  eminently  distinguished 

By  his  literary  and  scientific  attainments, 

By  his  professional  learning  and  ability, 

By  the  clearness  and  accuracy  of  his  intellect, 

By  diligence,  by  patience,  by  firmness,  by  love  of  truth, 

By  public  spirit,  ardent  and  disinterested, 
Yet  always  under  the  guidance  of  discretion, 
By  rigid  uprightness,  by  unostentatious  piety, 

By  the  serenity  of  his  temper, 
And  by  the  benevolence  of  his  heart. 

He  was  born  on  the  29th  September,  1797. 
He  died  on  the  2ist  October,  1837. 


2i6 


THE  LAST  BUCCANEER  (1839) 

THE  winds  were  yelling,  the  waves  were  swelling, 
The  sky  was  black  and  drear, 
When  the  crew  with  eyes  of  flame  brought  the  ship 

without  a  name 
Alongside  the  last  Buccaneer. 

4 '  Whence  flies  your  sloop  full  sail  before  so  full  a  gale, 
When  all  others  drive  bare  on  the  seas  ? 

Say,  come  ye  from  the  shore  of  the  holy  Salvador, 
Or  the  gulf  of  the  rich  Caribees  ?  " 

"  From  a  shore  no  search  hath  found,  from  a  gulf  no 
line  can  sound, 

Without  rudder  or  needle  we  steer  ; 
Above,  below,  our  bark  dies  the  sea-fowl  and  the  shark, 

As  we  fly  by  the  last  Buccaneer. 

"  To-night  there  shall  be  heard  on  the  rocks  of  Cape 

de  Verde 

A  loud  crash,  and  a  louder  roar  ; 
And  to-morrow  shall  the  deep,  with  a  heavy  moaning, 

sweep 
The  corpses  and  wreck  to  the  shore." 

217 


218  Miscellaneous  Poems 

The  stately  ship  of  Clyde  securely  now  may  ride 

In  the  breath  of  the  citron  shades  ; 
And  Severn's  towering  mast  securely  now  flies  fast, 

Through  the  sea  of  the  balmy  Trades. 

From  Saint  Jago's  wealthy  port,  from  Havana's  royal 
fort, 

The  seaman  goes  forth  without  fear  ; 
For  since  that  stormy  night  not  a  mortal  hath  had  sight 

Of  the  flag  of  the  last  Buccaneer. 


EPITAPH  ON  A  JACOBITE  (1845) 

my  true  king  I  offered,  free  from  stain, 
J       Courage  and  faith  ;  vain  faith,  and  courage  vain. 
For  him  I  threw  lands,  honors,  wealth,  away, 
And  one  dear  hope,  that  was  more  prized  than  they. 
For  him  I  languished  in  a  foreign  clime, 
Gray-haired  with  sorrow  in  my  manhood's  prime  ; 
Heard  on  L,avernia  Scargill's  whispering  trees, 
And  pined  by  Arno  for  my  lovelier  Tees  ; 
Beheld  each  night  my  home  in  fevered  sleep, 
Each  morning  started  from  the  dream  to  weep  ; 
Till  God,  who  saw  me  tried  too  sorely,  gave 
The  resting-place  I  asked — an  early  grave. 
O  thou  whom  chance  leads  to  this  nameless  stone 
From  that  proud  country  which  was  once  mine  own, 
By  those  white  cliffs  I  never  more  must  see, 
By  that  dear  language  which  I  spake  like  thee, 
Forget  all  feuds,  and  shed  one  English  tear 
O'er  English  dust.     A  broken  heart  lies  here. 


219 


EPITAPH  ON  LORD  METCALFE  (1847) 

Near  this  stone  is  laid 

CHARGES  LORD  METCALFK, 

A  statesman  tried  in  many  high  offices 

And  difficult  conjunctures, 

And  found  equal  to  all. 

The  three  greatest  dependencies  of  the  British  crown 

Were  successively  intrusted  to  his  care. 

In  India,  his  fortitude,  his  wisdom, 

His  probity,  and  his  moderation 

Are  held  in  honorable  remembrance 

By  men  of  many  races,  languages,  and  religions. 

In  Jamaica,  still  convulsed  by  a  social  revolution, 

His  prudence  calmed  the  evil  passions 
Which  long  suffering  had  engendered  in  one  class 

And  long  domination  in  another. 
In  Canada,  not  yet  recovered  from  the  calamities  of 

civil  war, 

He  reconciled  contending  factions 

To  each  other,  and  to  the  mother  country. 

Costly  monuments  in  Asiatic  and  American  cities 

Attest  the  gratitude  of  the  nations  which  he  ruled. 

This  tablet  records  the  sorrow  and  the  pride 
With  which  his  memory  is  cherished  by  his  family. 


220 


TRANSLATION  FROM  P^AUTUS  (1850) 

[The  author  passed  a  part  of  the  summer  and  autumn  of  1850 
at  Ventnor,  in  the  Isle  of  Wight.  He  usually,  when  walking 
alone,  had  with  him  a  book.  On  one  occasion,  as  he  was 
loitering  in  the  landslip  near  Bonchurch,  reading  the  Rudens 
of  Plautus,  it  struck  him  that  it  might  be  an  interesting  experi- 
ment to  attempt  to  produce  something  which  might  be  sup- 
posed to  resemble  passages  in  the  lost  Greek  drama  of  Diphilus, 
from  which  the  Rudens  appears  to  have  been  taken.  He 
selected  one  passage  in  the  Rudens,  of  which  he  then  made  the 
following  version,  which  he  afterwards  copied  out  at  the  request 
of  a  friend  to  whom  he  had  repeated  it. 

Act  IV.     Sc.  VII. 

D^MONES.    O  Gripe,    Gripe,    in   setate   hominum 

plurimae 

Fiunt  transennae,  ubi  decipiuntur  dolis  ; 
Atque  edepol  in  eas  plerumque  esca  imponitur. 
Quam  si  quis  avidus  pascit  escam  avariter, 
Decipitur  in  transenna  avaritia  sua. 
Ille,  qui  consulte,  docte,  atque  astute  cavet, 
Diutine  uti  bene  licet  partum  bene. 
M*  istaec  videtur  praeda  praedatum  irier  : 
Ut  cum  majore  dote  abeat,  quam  advenerit. 
Egone  ut,  quod  ad  me  adlatum  esse  alienum  sciam, 

221 


222  Miscellaneous  Poems 

Calem  ?    Minime  istuc  faciet  noster  Daemones. 
Semper  cavere  hoc  sapientes  sequissimum  est, 
Ne  conscii  sint  ipsi  maleficiis  suis. 
Ego,  mihi  quum  lusi,  nil  moror  ullum  lucrum. 
GRIPUS.    Spectavi  ego  pridem  Comicos  ad  istum 

modum 

Sapienter  dicta  dicere,  atque  iis  plaudier, 
Quum  illos  sapientis  mores  monstrabant  poplo  ; 
Sed  quum  inde  suam  quisque  ibant  diversi  domum, 
Nullus  erat  illo  pacto,  ut  illi  jusserant.] 


4AIM.  £l  FpiTte,  FpiTte,  Ttkeiara  itayidoov 

1601  tig  av  nenr^y^ev  ev  SVTJTGOV  fiico, 
HOLI  7t\ei<3-c  en  avroif  6eXea6\  cov  e 
opeyopevog  rig  ev  Hanois  cikiG  Herat  • 

6*  anisrei  KOL\  Gocpoo?  (pv\arreraiy 


d  ovx  ctpTtayfJi  6  \dpva%  ovroffi, 
.'  avro?,  oipai,  jj.a7(.\ov  apna^ei  tiva. 

avdpa  H\enreiv  iak\or 
takav  • 

tavtrjv  ye  JJLTI  JMXIVOITO  jjiaviav 
rode  yap  ael  GocpoiGiv  ev\aftrjreovy 
firf  ri  notf  eavToj)  n$  ddiKrfjjia  ffvvvo^  • 
nepdrj  d*  ejxoiye  TtdvS*  odoi?  ev<ppaivo}jiai, 
nepdos  $*  duepdes  o  rovpor  akyvvei  neap. 
rPIII.    nayco  jusv  r)$rj  KGOJJLIHGJV  anrjHOa 
GejjtvGog  \eyorrGov  roidde,  rovs  6e 
HporeiVy  jjiaraioiz  rfSofJievovs  ffo<ptffj*aff 
ef&\  cos  dnrjktf  enaffro?  oina8\  ovdevi 
ovdev  itapepeive  rcov  nabobs 


VALENTINK 

TO  THE;  HON.  MARY  c.  STANHOPE 

DAUGHTER  OP  LORD  AND   LADY   MAHON  ' 


HAIL,  day  of  music,  day  of  love, 
On  earth  below,  in  air  above. 
In  air  the  turtle  fondly  moans, 
The  linnet  pipes  in  joyous  tones  ; 
On  earth  the  postman  toils  along, 
Bent  double  by  huge  bales  of  song, 
Where,  rich  with  many  a  gorgeous  dye, 
Blazes  all  Cupid's  heraldry  — 
Myrtles  and  roses,  doves  and  sparrows, 
Love-knots  and  altars,  lamps  and  arrows. 
What  nymph  without  wild  hopes  and  fears 
The  double  rap  this  morning  hears  ? 
Unnumbered  lasses,  young  and  fair, 
From  Bethnal  Green  to  Belgrave  Square, 
With  cheeks  high  flushed,  and  hearts  loud  beating, 
Await  the  tender  annual  greeting. 
The  loveliest  lass  of  all  is  mine  — 
Good-morrow  to  my  Valentine  ! 

•Already  published  by  Earl  Stanhope  in  his  Miscellanies,  1863. 
223 


224  Miscellaneous  Poems 

Good-morrow,  gentle  child  !  and  then 
Again  good-morrow,  and  again, 
Good-morrow  following  still  good-morrow, 
Without  one  cloud  of  strife  or  sorrow. 
And  when  the  god  to  whom  we  pay 
In  jest  our  homages  to-day 
Shall  come  to  claim,  no  more  in  jest, 
His  rightful  empire  o'er  thy  breast, 
Benignant  may  his  aspect  be, 
His  yoke  the  truest  liberty  : 
And  if  a  tear  his  power  confess, 
Be  it  a  tear  of  happiness. 
It  shall  be  so.     The  Muse  displays 
The  future  to  her  votary's  gaze  ; 
Prophetic  rage  my  bosom  swells — 
I  taste  the  cake,  I  hear  the  bells  ! 
From  Conduit  Street  the  close  array 
Of  chariots  barricades  the  way 
To  where  I  see,  with  outstretched  hand, 
Majestic,  thy  great  kinsman  stand,1 
And  half  unbend  his  brow  of  pride, 
As  welcoming  so  fair  a  bride. 
Gay  favors,  thick  as  flakes  of  snow, 
Brighten  Saint  George's  portico. 
Within  I  see  the  chancel's  pale, 
The  orange  flowers,  the  Brussels  veil, 
The  page  on  which  those  fingers  white, 
Still  trembling  from  the  awful  rite, 
For  the  last  time  shall  faintly  trace 
The  name  of  Stanhope's  noble  race. 
I  see  kind  faces  round  thee  pressing, 
I  hear  kind  voices  whisper  blessing  ; 
1  The  statue  of  Mr.  Pitt  in  Hanover  Square. 


Valentine 


225 


And  with  those  voices  mingles  mine — 
All  good  attend  my  Valentine  ! 

T.  B.  MACAUI<AY. 

St.  Valentine's  Day,  1851. 


PARAPHRASE  OF  A  PASSAGE  IN  THE  CHRON- 
ICLE OF  THE  MONK  OF  ST.  GALL 
(1856) 

[In  the  summer  of  1856,  the  author  travelled  with  a  friend 
through  Lombardy.  As  they  were  on  the  road  between  Novara 
and  Milan,  they  were  conversing  on  the  subject  of  the  legends 
relating  to  that  country.  The  author  remarked  to  his  compan- 
ion that  Mr.  Panizzi,  in  the  Essay  on  the  Romantic  Narrative 
Poetry  of  the  Italians,  prefixed  to  his  edition  of  Boiardo,  had 
pointed  out  an  instance  of  the  conversion  of  ballad-poetry  into 
prose  narrative  which  strongly  confirmed  the  theory  of  Perizo- 
nius  and  Niebuhr,  upon  which  the  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome  are 
founded ;  and,  after  repeating  an  extract  which  Mr.  Panizzi 
has  given  from  the  Chronicle  of  the  Monk  of  St.  Gall,  he  pro- 
ceeded to  frame  a  metrical  paraphrase.  The  note  in  Mr. 
Panizzi's  work  (vol.  i.,  p.  123,  note  b)  is  here  copied  verbatim. 

"  The  monk  says  that  Oger  was  with  Desiderius, 
King  of  Lombardy,  watching  the  advance  of  Charle- 
magne's army.  The  king  often  asked  Oger  where  was 
Charlemagne.  Quando  videris,  inquit,  segetem  campis 
inhorrescere,  ferreum  Padum  et  Ticinum  marinis  flucti- 
bus  ferro  nigrantibus  muros  civitatis  inundantes,  tune 
est  spes  Carol!  venientis.  His  nedum  expletis  primum 
ad  occasum  Circino  vel  Borea  coepit  apparere,  quasi 
nubes  tenebrosa,  quae  diem  clarissimam  horrentes  con- 
vertit  in  umbras.  Sed  propiante  Imperatore,  ex  armo- 

226 


Paraphrase 


227 


rum  splendore,  dies  omni  nocte  tenebrosior  oborta  est 
inclusis.  Tune  visus  est  ipse  ferreus  Carolus  ferrea 
galea  cristatus,  ferreis  manicis  armillatus,  etc.,  etc. 
His  igitur,  quae  ego  balbus  et  edentulus,  non  ut  debui 
circuitu  tardiore  diutius  explicare  tentavi,  veridicus 
speculator  Oggerus  celerrimo  visu  contuitus  dixit  ad 
Desiderium  :  Kcce,  habes  quern  tantopere  perquisisti. 
Et  haec  dicens,  pene  exanimis  cecidit. — MONACH.  SAN- 
GAL.  ,  De  Reb.  Bel.  Caroli  Magni,  lib.  ii. ,  §  xxvi.  Is  this 
not  evidently  taken  from  poetical  effusions  ?  "] 


PARAPHRASE 

TO  Oggier  spake  King  Didier  : 
"  When  cometh  Charlemagne  ? 
We  looked  for  him  in  harvest ; 

We  looked  for  him  in  rain. 
Crops  are  reaped,  and  floods  are  past, 

And  still  he  is  not  here. 
Some  token  show,  that  we  may  know 
That  Charlemagne  is  near.*' 

Then  to  the  King  made  answer 

Oggier,  the  christened  Dane  : 
"  When  stands  the  iron  harvest 

Ripe  on  the  Lombard  plain, 
That  stiff  harvest  which  is  reaped 

With  sword  of  knight  and  peer, 
Then  by  that  sign  ye  may  divine 

That  Charlemagne  is  near. 

"  When  round  the  Lombard  cities 

The  iron  flood  shall  flow, 
A  swifter  flood  than  Ticin, 

A  broader  flood  than  Po, 
Frothing  white  with  many  a  plume, 

Dark  blue  with  many  a  spear, 
Then  by  that  sign  ye  may  divine 

That  Charlemagne  is  near." 
228 


LINES  WRITTEN  ON  THE  NIGHT  OF  THE 
30TH  OF  JULY,  1847 

AT  THE   CLOSE   OF  AN   UNSUCCESSFUL   CONTEST   FOR 
EDINBURGH 

THE  day  of  tumult,  strife,  defeat,  was  o'er  ; 
Worn  out  with  toil  and  noise  and  scorn  and 

spleen, 

I  slumbered,  and  in  slumber  saw  once  more 
A  room  in  an  old  mansion,1  long  unseen. 

That  room,  methought,  was  curtained  from  the  light ; 

Yet  through  the  curtains  shone  the  moon's  cold  ray 
Full  on  a  cradle,  where,  in  linen  white, 

Sleeping  life's  first  soft  sleep,  an  infant  lay. 

Pale  flickered  on  the  hearth  the  dying  flame, 

And  all  was  silent  in  that  ancient  hall, 
Save  when  by  fits  on  the  low  night- wind  came 

The  murmur  of  the  distant  waterfall. 

And  lo  !  the  fairy  queens  who  rule  our  birth 
Drew  nigh  to  speak  the  new-born  baby's  doom  : 

1  Rothley  Temple,  Leicestershire. 
229 


230  Miscellaneous  Poems 

With  noiseless  step,  which  left  no  trace  on  earth, 
From  gloom  they  came,  and  vanished  into  gloom. 

Not  deigning  on  the  boy  a  glance  to  cast, 

Swept  careless  by  the  gorgeous  Queen  of  Gain  ; 

More  scornful  still  the  Queen  of  Fashion  passed, 
With  mincing  gait  and  sneer  of  cold  disdain. 

The  Queen  of  Power  tossed  high  her  jewelled  head, 
And  o'er  her  shoulder  threw  a  wrathful  frown  ; 

The  Queen  of  Pleasure  on  the  pillow  shed 
Scarce  one  stray  rose-leaf  from  her  fragrant  crown. 

Still  Fay  in  long  procession  followed  Fay, 
And  still  the  little  couch  remained  unblest ; 

But,  when  those  wayward  sprites  had  passed  away, 
Came  One,  the  last,  the  mightiest,  and  the  best. 

O  glorious  lady  with  the  eyes  of  light, 

And  laurels  clustering  round  thy  lofty  brow, 

Who  by  the  cradle's  side  didst  watch  that  night, 
Warbling  a  sweet  strange  music,  who  wast  thou  ? 

"  Yes,  darling,  let  them  go;  "  so  ran  the  strain  : 
"  Yes,  let  them  go — gain,  fashion,  pleasure,  power, 

And  all  the  busy  elves  to  whose  domain 
Belongs  the  nether  sphere,  the  fleeting  hour. 

"  Without  one  envious  sigh,  one  anxious  scheme, 
The  nether  sphere,  the  fleeting  hour  resign  ; 

Mine  is  the  world  of  thought,  the  world  of  dream, 
Mine  all  the  past,  and  all  the  future  mine. 


Lines  231 

"  Fortune,  that  lays  in  sport  the  mighty  low  ; 

Age,  that  to  penance  turns  the  joys  of  youth, 
Shall  leave  untouched  the  gifts  which  I  bestow — 

The  sense  of  beauty  and  the  thirst  of  truth. 

"  Of  the  fair  brotherhood  who  share  my  grace, 
I,  from  thy  natal  day,  pronounce  thee  free  ; 

And  if  for  some  I  keep  a  nobler  place, 
I  keep  for  none  a  happier  than  for  thee. 

"  There  are  who,  while  to  vulgar  eyes  they  seem 

Of  all  my  bounties  largely  to  partake, 
Of  me  as  of  some  rival's  handmaid  deem, 

And  court  me  but  for  gain's,  power's,  fashion's  sake. 

"  To  such,  though  deep  their  lore,  though  wide  their 
fame, 

Shall  my  great  mysteries  be  all  unknown  ; 
But  thou,  through  good  and  evil,  praise  and  blame, 

Wilt  thou  not  love  me  for  myself  alone  ? 

"  Yes,  thou  wilt  love  me  with  exceeding  love, 

And  I  will  tenfold  all  that  love  repay  ; 
Still  smiling,  though  the  tender  may  reprove  ; 

Still  faithful,  though  the  trusted  may  betray. 

"  For  aye  mine  emblem  was,  and  aye  shall  be, 
The  ever-during  plant  whose  bough  I  wear, 

Brightest  and  greenest  then  when  every  tree 
That  blossoms  in  the  light  of  Time  is  bare. 

"  In  the  dark  hour  of  shame,  I  deigned  to  stand 
Before  the  frowning  peers  at  Bacon's  side  ; 


232  Miscellaneous  Poems 

On  a  far  shore  I  smoothed  with  tender  hand, 
Through  months  ot  pain,  the  sleepless  bed  of  Hyde  : 

' '  I  brought  the  wise  and  brave  of  ancient  days 
To  cheer  the  cell  where  Raleigh  pined  alone  ; 

I  lighted  Milton's  darkness  with  the  blaze 
Of  the  bright  ranks  that  guard  the  eternal  throne. 

"  And  even  so,  my  child,  it  is  my  pleasure 
That  thou  not  then  alone  shouldst  feel  me  nigh 

When  in  domestic  bliss  and  studious  leisure 
Thy  weeks  uncounted  come,  uncounted  fly  ; 

' '  Not  then  alone  when  myriads,  closely  prest 
Around  thy  car,  the  shout  of  triumph  raise  ; 

Nor  when,  in  gilded  drawing-rooms,  thy  breast 
Swells  at  the  sweeter  sound  of  woman's  praise. 

"  No  ;  when  on  restless  night  dawns  cheerless  morrow, 
When  weary  soul  and  wasting  body  pine, 

Thine  am  I  still,  in  danger,  sickness,  sorrow, 
In  conflict,  obloquy,  want,  exile,  thine  ; 

"  Thine,  where  on  mountain  waves  the  snow-birds 
scream, 

Where  more  than  Thule's  winter  barbs  the  breeze, 
Where  scarce,  through  lowering  clouds,  one  sickly  gleam 

Lights  the  drear  May-day  of  Antarctic  seas  ; 

"  Thine,  when  around  thy  litter's  track  all  day 
White  sand-hills  shall  reflect  the  blinding  glare  ; 

Thine,  when,  through  forests  breathing  death,  thy  way 
All  night  shall  wind  by  many  a  tiger's  lair  ; 


Lines  233 

"  Thine  most,  when  friends  turn  pale,  when  traitors  fly, 
When,  hard  beset,  thy  spirit,  justly  proud, 

For  truth,  peace,  freedom,  mercy,  dares  defy 
A  sullen  priesthood  and  a  raving  crowd. 

"  Amidst  the  din  of  all  things  fell  and  vile, 
Hate's  yell,  and  envy's  hiss,  and  folly's  bray, 

Remember  me  ;  and  with  an  unforced  smile 
See  riches,  baubles,  flatterers,  pass  away. 

"  Yes,  they  will  pass  away;  nor  deem  it  strange  : 
They  come  and  go,  as  comes  and  goes  the  sea. 

And  let  them  come  and  go  :  thou,  through  all  change, 
Fix  thy  firm  gaze  on  virtue  and  on  me." 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


LD  21-100m-6,'56 
(B9311slO)476 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


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THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


